


the Ominous Them

by arevo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, M/M, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, band au, grace!akaashi keiji, living in a tour bus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-14 13:51:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13009194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arevo/pseuds/arevo
Summary: The Ominous Them is halfway through a tour when Kenma decides he doesn't want to do this anymore. Cue Tsukishima Kei, college dropout and unlikely saviour, come to join the band, at least for now.Akaashi is unexpectedly smitten, Kuroo is unexpectedly jealous, Tsukishima is keeping secrets and Yaku is as tired as Kenma.





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m done after tonight.”

For the first time in months, silence fell, complete and shocking, over the band. It hadn’t even been so quiet in their sleep. Thanks to the insulation of the green room, not even the buzzing crowd waiting for them was audible. 

A drum stick fell from Bokuto’s hand, clattering loudly and setting off an explosion of noise.

“You’re leaving us?” Bokuto cried. He waved the remaining stick as he talked.

“We’re halfway through a tour, though,” Akaashi said flatly. He trapped the loose drumstick under his shoe, but his hands remained still over the strings of his guitar.

“Yaku’s going to kill you,” Kuroo said dryly. His face said he was considering doing it first. 

Kenma cringed, digging his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. He couldn’t meet those eyes, familiar sets all three, scrutinizing. “Doesn’t matter. I’m tired,” he muttered. It was far from the whole truth.

More silence, more staring. Kenma felt like he might combust soon. That would be fine, he decided. 

Finally, Kuroo sighed loudly and attention shifted to the spiky haired lead. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised. We should’ve seen it coming - no offence, stamina’s never been your strong suit.” He cast a sideways glance at Kenma, who just nodded. “Which makes us stupid for not having a back-up. Akaashi, when’s the break again?”

“As I’ve said before, it’s not really a break from tour,” Akaashi said pointedly. “We still have places to be and PR events to attend.” 

“Akaashi!” 

“We have two weeks until our next show.” 

“So we have two weeks to find someone to fill in?” Bokuto asked. 

Crossing his arms and leaning back into the couch he shared with Bokuto, Kuroo hummed loudly to himself. “Between everything else too.” 

Kenma exhaled. They were taking this better than he initially expected. Perhaps he should’ve saved it for a few hours, until after their show, but they seemed to take it in stride as 

Akaashi returned the stick to Bokuto and warned him not to lose any more of them. Kuroo rested his chin in his palm. 

“Is this just from tour, or from the OT altogether?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” Kenma repeated. “Altogether, I think. For now.” 

“You’re sticking around to teach whoever we find.” An order. 

“Ugh.” 

“It’s only fair, Kozume,” Akaashi said, raising his eyebrows as he set his guitar against the arm of his chair, stood up and patted imaginary dirt from his pants. “We’ll tell Yaku afterwards.” He glanced at the others for confirmation. “For now, we have a show to play.”

Bokuto crowed loudly and bounced to his feet. “We’re gonna crush it tonight. So stay with us.” He reached over and mussed up Kenma’s pudding hair, much to the latter’s protest. “It’ll be the best concert you’ve ever been to.” 

Colour creeped into Kenma’s face as he yanked his sleeves over his hands and shuffled to his feet. Kuroo was the only one left sitting, ankle across his knee and eye closed in thought. 

“Tetsurou?” Kenma asked.

“Coming, coming,” he drawled, smirking at him and untangling his gangly form. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint all our adoring fans.”

“I doubt they’re here to see us specifically,” Akaashi pointed out, moving his guitar yet again (this time, into a designated stand). “We’re only the openers, after all.”

“Akaaashi!” Bokuto whined. “Let us dream!” 

Brows drawn, he replied, “That’s the point of the last five shows.” It had been an idea hatched between Kuroo, Yaku and himself to try and give themselves a boost; spend a while opening for a big head-liner, and follow with their own, independent tour. If they were lucky, they’d draw some interest from the recent shows. 

“My argument remains!” 

“It was a proclamation.” 

Bokuto puffed out his cheeks, staring down his old friend, who maintained his unfettered, deadpan stare. 

After a moment of staring, Akaashi offered his fist and said, “Let’s kill it.” 

Bokuto grinned, nearly shivering with excitement as he knocked knuckles, and Akaashi offered a momentary half-smile. 

It takes so much to get him fired up, Kuroo thought with a mental sigh as Akaashi swatted away Bokuto’s enthusiastic attempt to do something more “show worthy” with the former’s signature woke-up-like-this hairdo.

“Tetsu,” Kenma said quietly, pulling on Kuroo’s sleeve. “Sorry.” 

“Shit happens.” He stood and slung his arm around Kenma’s narrow shoulders. “You have to take care of yourself first.” 

He frowned and ducked out from Kuroo’s arm. Holding Kuroo’s wrist, he punched his knuckles gently. “Let’s kick some ass tonight.” 

He grinned, a cheshire in his territory. “Let’s.”

 

“Okay, but I’m serious, Sawamura. I’m in a bind here,” Kuroo whined, glancing around the corner for any possible eavesdropper. He was supposed to be helping load the bus again, but he wouldn’t get another moment alone to panic for a while. “What the actual fuck are we supposed to do?”

A laugh echoed through the phone line. 

“Don’t laugh, this is serious.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Sawamura said, stifling his laughter unsuccessfully. “Go on.”

“You’re the worst. We have two weeks of press before the next show, but how the hell am I supposed to find someone to learn a whole set in that time?”

A beat of silence. “I might have a solution for you, Kuroo.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Sawamura.”

“No, I mean it. One of the guys I went to high school with - I heard through a mutual friend that he quit school recently.”

“Some random college drop-out?”

“Some classically trained pianist college drop-out you mean?”

“Do you think he’d go for it?”

“Hard to say - he’s never been very easy to read, but I’ll shoot him a line.”

“If this works out-“

“Then you owe me at least one night out,” Sawamura said lightly. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks, Sawamura.” They signed off and Kuroo sighed, slouching against the building.

“Care to share?”

Kuroo jumped, nearly toppling over. Akaashi waited, hands folding behind him, an ever-so placid expression on his face.

“Stop doing that, Akaashi,” he hissed, hand over his heart. “I’ll die.”

Akaashi raised his eyebrows.

“Sawamura might have someone who can fill in for Kenma,” Kuroo finally said.

Akaashi raised his brows farther. 

“Some pianist who dropped school recently. I don’t know the details, but I trust Sawamura.” He mussed his own hair.

“Sawamura is a very dependable person. I hope his friend is too,” Akaashi mused. “Now come help. This stuff is heavy.”

“Just don’t say anything to the others yet, okay?”

“Obviously,” Akaashi snorted. 

Together they headed back to the stage door, where Bokuto was waddling out with his kick drum held tight against his abdomen towards the tour bus. Kenma hurried past him on the way out with his phone clutched against his chest.

“Is he still flirting with that red-head in the boonies?” Akaashi asked, nose scrunched.

“You mean Hinata?” Kuroo raised his brows. 

“If that’s his name. The loud one who came round opening night.”

“That’s definitely Hinata and they’re definitely still flirting.” Kuroo laughed.

Akaashi said nothing for a long time, coming to a stop. 

“Akaashi?”

“I just don’t understand how you all do it,” he said, blowing past Kuroo’s curious gaze and disappearing inside the venue to help with the rest of the equipment. 

Scratching his head, Kuroo sighed. Ah, this old struggle. 

 

Yaku stared at each of them for a whole minute, tie hanging undone around his neck and beer clutched in ever-whitening knuckled hands. 

“You can’t be serious,” he finally lamented, dropping his face into his hands. 

Akaashi gave him a single pat on the back while raising his own drink to his lips. The pub was loud, but jovial and no one seemed to recognize them. He could afford to have a drink. 

“How could you do this to me, Kenma?” Yaku groaned. “What the hell are we supposed to do?” 

“We find someone else, at least for now.” Kuroo waved to the waiter to bring another round of beers. 

“Yeah, how hard could it be?” Bokuto was aiming at being encouraging, but the shoulder whacks seemed more like an assault. 

“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or not. What if whoever you pick up is actually a fan and can’t keep their shit together on stage? Or discover what assholes you all are and kills any good rep you might have now?” 

“I’m not an asshole,” Akaashi reported dryly. 

“Hey! Stand up for the rest of us too, Akaashi! We’re a team!” Bokuto cried.

Akaashi pointedly looked away, sipping his drink. 

“Ass,” Kenma muttered, and Akaashi kicked him under the table.

“Okay, okay,” Yaku said, running his hands over his face and rebuilding his composure. “If you manage to find someone who is not useless or going to kill you in your sleep, you-“ he pointed at Kenma with his whole arm, making him choke on his drink. “-have to stay long enough to teach whoever it is. Got it?”

“Ngh,” Kenma grunted. 

“He said that’s fine,” Kuroo translated, and ignored the dirty look Kenma sent him, as he had clearly meant ‘I don’t want to do that’ and Kuroo knew that. 

“And there will be no mention of this to the press until we have another member ready to go.”

“Even if it might help us to reveal otherwise?” Akaashi asked. 

“That’s how you attract stalkers.”

“We’re not popular enough for fans that dedicated.”

“Stop being such an ass!” Yaku snapped, punching him in the arm, to which he replied, “Oh the pain, I’ll never be able to use this arm to play guitar or anything else ever again,” in a complete deadpan. The sandy-haired manager just groaned loudly and laid his face on the table while Kuroo and Akaashi shared a high-five. 

“Ah, lighten up, Yaku! We made it through the first half just fine, and now all those people know how awesome we are!” Bokuto crowed. He grinned from ear to ear, and nearly sloshed his beer over Yaku and Akaashi on his side of the table throwing his arms in the air. 

“Of course. We are the Ominous Them, after all,” Kuroo said, smirking widely. “Who hasn’t heard of us?”

Akaashi raised his glass, a shade of a smirk on his face. 

“Aye to that!” Bokuto raised his glass and crashed it against the others that rose in the enthusiastic cheers. It was a wonder none of the glasses were broken. 

As they settled into food and drinks, Kenma nudged Kuroo beside him. “You okay?”

Kuroo hummed in response, digging out his phone. He stared at it for a long minute before scrambling out of his seat, hitting re-dial as he did. “I’ll be right back!” he called. Looks were exchanged around the table, excusing Akaashi, who simply polished off his drink and hailed a waiter for another. 

Sawamura picked up after five or six rings and Kuroo was worried he was going to get the voicemail.

“Jesus, do you know what time it is?” he complained.

“It’s only 9 o’clock, you old lady.”

“Well outside regular calling hours, but I guess that means you got my text.”

“Yeah, but what exactly does that mean, back up is go?” 

“Exactly what I said. The guy I was telling you about - he said he didn’t have anything better to do, so he’d do it.” 

“You’re serious? He’s serious? Who is this god-send?”

Sawamura laughed. “You may not think of him as a god-send after you meet him.”

“What the hell does that mean, Sawamura?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” he laughed. “I’ll send you his email so you can pick him up this week.” 

“I owe you big time for this, Sawamura.” 

“Send us tickets next time you’re close by.” Kuroo could hear Sugawara complaining in the background. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait - one more question.”

 

Everyone was at least a little bit sauced by the time Kuroo stopped whooping and ran back inside, sliding into the booth bench. 

“Problem fixed!”

“Already?” Yaku said, squinting at him. 

Akaashi inspected his empty glass, colour high in his face. “Too fast,” he remarked, and it was unclear whether he meant the replacement or the disappearance of his drink.

Kenma and Bokuto both fixed Kuroo with their different but equally soul piercing looks. 

“I called my old buddy Sawamura Daichi from high school - we were in the local GSA together - and he happened to know a guy. Said guy has agreed to join the band, at least until the end of the tour.”

“Kuroo Tetsurou, when the hell did you get so reliable?” Yaku accused. 

“I’m always this reliable,” Kuroo said defensively. 

Kenma exhaled to himself as Bokuto began loudly speculating what sort of person this newbie might be. Kuroo slid into the booth next to him. 

“I’m relieved,” he muttered. “But it sucks that I’m so replaceable.”

Silence fell for a long moment as they all stared at their unsteady pudding-head, who became redder and redder under their scrutiny. And then there was an explosion of noise, rebuttals and defences, which continued loudly until a waiter across the pub yelled at them to quiet down and Kenma started to laugh. 

“You’re all idiots,” he said, holding his gut as he laughed. 

“Am not,” Akaashi said, frowning. 

“Akaashi, drink some water,” Kuroo advised, pushing a glass towards him. “And let’s go for a quick walk. Drinks always go straight to your head.”

Glaring, he lifted and drained the glass in one go, before standing. He gestured for Kuroo to lead the way. 

 

The evening air was still warm, but Akaashi breathed it in deeply, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“What is up with you today, Akaashi?” Kuroo asked.

Akaashi closed his eyes, taking a moment to consider. “It’s stupid, but I’m worried that Kenma is leaving us for some boy he hardly knows.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what’s so stupid. I know that, and the thought still crosses my mind, and I don’t know if that’s reasonable, if that’s something normal people might do.”

“Normal people?” Kuroo asked skeptically. 

“You know what I me-“

“No, I don’t, because there’s nothing wrong or abnormal about you.” Kuroo looked at him crossly. 

“He wouldn’t do that and I’m normal, I know,” Akaashi said. “It was just a thought that’s been bothering me. Sorry.” 

“And you’re a little bit drunk.” 

“Just a little. So?” he said defensively.

“Playing mother is your job, that’s all,” Kuroo laughed, raising his hands.

“I agreed to nothing.”

“And yet you do it anyways.”

“Nannies get paid for looking after babies like you guys,” Akaashi said, waving off Kuroo’s smirking leer. 

“That’s why you’re our mom friend and not our nanny friend.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes. “Well, your mom friend is going to go back inside and have another drink. Are you coming?” 

“Of course.”

 

Yaku begrudgingly paid for their last round of drinks while declaring that it was the last time he’d ever do it. It was a reliable sign that the night was winding down as usual. They stumbled out of the pub, Akaashi clinging to Bokuto, struggling to put his feet in the right order; Bokuto seemed largely unaffected, but he continued to loudly hum that one Journey song. Yaku and Kuroo were leaning on each other and arguing loudly over each other about something unintelligible. Kenma walked beyond the grip of the rest of them, having drank orange juice all evening. 

He led the way around city blocks, back to their cramped but homey tour bus where Yaku would crash on the couch and it would be like so many nights before, and like nights before the bus crashing at Kuroo and Kenma’s tiny apartment. Kenma missed their cat, he realized dimly, and his bed and the wheezy neighbour down the hall who always asked him to play the same slow song for her, but he’d miss this too, the crash of bodies in the narrowest of corridors, the little stars and stickers and pictures plastered on the walls, the fridge, inside each little bunk and how they became a meadow in the dark, opening up. He unlocked the door and let them in, grateful that their driver decided to opt for a hotel that night, sick of all the boys and their shenanigans. It stuck in his throat a little bit. 

Kuroo and Yaku collapsed onto the couch/bench of their little living room situation, seemingly at the end of their argument. Akaashi fetched his water bottle from his bunk and guzzled it, looking a bit grey. Bokuto patted his shoulder consolingly. 

Kenma perched himself on the other side of their living room. “Who is this newbie anyways?” he asked. 

All eyes turned to Kuroo, who cleared his throat and declared, “The newest member of the Ominous Them, the college drop-out and all around mystery is named Tsukishima Kei.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukki meets the band.

“Ugh,” Akaashi grunted as Bokuto ripped open the curtain on his bunk, letting in the blinding sun. “No.”

“Rise and shine, Akaashi!” he said, prodding his friend. Out of the three bunks on this side of the bus, Akaashi was in the second, meaning Bokuto had to bend over to do so. 

Akaashi swatted his hand away and rolled over, pulling the pillow around his head. “Go to hell.”  
Kenma tapped Bokuto’s shoulder to get his attention. “Let me try,” he said quietly. The tall, wild-haired percussionist acquiesced and stood back as Kenma crouched down to Akaashi’s bunk.

“Here,” he said, offering a glass of water and a couple Advil. 

Groaning, Akaashi rolled onto his back and cracked a bleary eye to glare at his bandmates. “Why?”

“We’re picking up Tsukishima in a couple hours.” 

“Already? Let me sleep until then.” 

“No, we have paperwork.”

Grimacing, Akaashi accepted the Advil and climbed out of his bunk unsteadily.

“Oh good, it looks like Sleeping Beauty has decided to join us,” Yaku greeted, unimpressed, but equally rumpled and hungover. 

Akaashi only acknowledged him with a raised middle finger as he flopped onto the couch next to Kuroo.

“Morning,” Kuroo said.

“Bite me,” Akaashi muttered, running his hands through his hair. Somehow, his bedhead always looks like it was supposed to do that. He had those sort of effortless stunning looks, piercings and bedhead included, that made Kuroo a bit jealous. 

Akaashi took the papers from Kuroo wordlessly, scanning them through narrowed eyes before sighing. “Bokuto, can you please grab my glasses?”

Bokuto laughed, passing them over. 

Even with the large round reading glasses, Akaashi looked good, Kuroo caught himself thinking just as Akaashi glanced at him. Face burning, he looked away and cleared his throat. 

Akaashi shared a glance with Kenma, who made no distinctive face in response, before returning to the paperwork in his hand. 

Bokuto turned from the “kitchen” - which consisted of microwave, coffee pot, and mini fridge - with mugs of coffee for Yaku, Kuroo and Akaashi, and a mug of tea for Kenma. “I’m excited to meet this Tsukishima guy.”

“Mm?” Kenma hummed, sipping his tea.

“Well, he’s gotta be a good person. He agreed to drop everything to live in a bus with strangers for a month,” Bokuto reasoned, stealing a sip of Kuroo’s still-in-his-hand coffee. “Not many people would do something like that.”

Kenma thought there was probably more to it than a desire to help a stranger, but kept that to himself. “I guess.”

“What do you think he’s like? Kuroo, did Sawamura say anything about him?” Bokuto said, interrupting the quiet discussion over paperwork between Yaku, Kuroo and Akaashi. 

“He did.” Kuroo didn’t elaborate, not looking up. “About this bit, here, do we need to pay that? Or is that company responsibility?”

Akaashi said, “Company,” as Yaku said, ”You guys.” There was a moment of glaring before sidelining the mysterious charge. 

Kenma sank into his seat, drawing his knees to his chest. Maybe he should reconsider staying; he wanted to work hard for his friends and for himself, but it would only get harder as they went - there would be no end to it. No, it was better to get out now.

Maybe the new guy would have better stamina.

 

Tsukishima was car sick. 

Considering he’d agreed to live on a bus for a month, it didn’t exactly feel like an encouraging pat on the back from the universe. 

He had yet to actually lose his stomach contents, but the constant threat was irritating and uncomfortable and the woman in the bus seat next to him couldn’t seem to retain a strong enough cellular connection to continue her stitch-n-bitch with Nancy back home. 

The Band, as Daichi called them, would meet him at the bus stop. Impossible to miss them, Daichi had said. 

Great, Tsukishima thought to himself, I just might start this shit-show by throwing up in front of them. 

The bus depot was only ten minutes out and Nancy hung up on his seat-mate, sparking some very aggressive knitting.

He looked down at his phone and didn’t even register the time, diverting his gaze outside again. That’s right. Orient the brain to movement; don’t throw up on old ladies. Or new bandmates.

Yamaguchi had seemed hesitant about the whole thing - he thought Tsukishima was being reckless, ruining his potential. He’d been quiet the whole drive to the departing terminal. 

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. 

It was something. 

 

Daichi was right. They were impossible to miss. 

Or at least the two who were waiting in the terminal for him. One had obscene white and black hair spiked up towards the ceiling like an owl, playing air drums to the radio with his index fingers. He was wearing his own merchandise, a graphic tee with the large print reading US VS (THE OMINOUS) THEM. Next to him, holding a sign with his name scrawled on it, was an equally tall and out of place young man with messy hair obscuring half his face and black ink obscuring the skin of both arms. He was also wearing a shirt that seemed to be his own march (the Ominous Them We), but it was significantly more faded, and seemed homemade. 

Tsukishima knew from his last minute research of the band that this was Bokuto Koutarou, drummer and energetic powerhouse, and Kuroo Tetsurou, sly singer and bass guitarist, of the Ominous Them. Kuroo noticed him first.

“Tsukki!” he called and several other patrons looked up at Kuroo, then Tsukishima. Daichi must have sent them a photo. 

Clicking his tongue angrily, Tsukishima made his way over to the two.

Kuroo smirked widely and Bokuto grinned widely at him. Too friendly. 

“Yo. Got all your shit?” Kuroo asked.

Tsukishima nodded. 

“Good. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the guys.” He gestured towards the door with his chin and led the way out, a saunter in his step. Bokuto walked beside Tsukishima, nearly bouncing up and down. 

“You’re a real lifesaver, Tsukishima. Thanks,” he said.

“It’s not like I had anything else to do,” Tsukishima grumbled, looking away from his blinding grin and owlish gaze. It was uncomfortable. 

“Name’s Bokuto, by the way. Bokuto Koutarou,” he added, head tilting to the side and reminding Tsukishima even more of an owl. “The drummer.”

“I know.”

“You do?” He seemed quite proud of himself. 

“Daichi said you’d never heard of us,” Kuroo drawled, turning on his heel to look at Tsukishima over his shoulder. There was flint in his eyes. 

“It’s called Google.” He looked at the lead singer over the rim of his glasses, mouth a straight line. 

“Ooh, scary.” Kuroo laughed. They stopped in front of the bus. 

It was impressive, for such a little known band. This was their first major tour, as far as Tsukishima could tell, and they’d only released two EPs and a few singles. Their recently signed-to label had been taken over by a larger one this past year, which led them to this short opening stint. 

Kuroo led the way in, yelling, “Rise and shine, ladies!” as he climbed the steps. 

There were no ladies, somewhat to Tsukishima’s relief. There was however, two smaller young men. One was Kozume Kenma, the quiet and unsteady pianist for the band, with his two-toned hair pulled up in a half-pony, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He nodded silently, but his gaze was piercing. The other, rumpled and sandy-haired, Tsukishima didn’t know.

“You must be Tsukishima. Yaku Morisuke,” the latter said, rising and offering his hand. He was very short next to Tsukishima, Kuroo and Bokuto. “I’m the manager.”

Tsukishima shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said stiffly. 

“And this is Kenma,” Kuroo announced, flopping down next to Kenma and ruffling his hair. 

“You’re missing one.”

“You are correct. Bokuto, could you?” Kuroo said, and he seemed overly pleased with himself.

“Akaaasshiiii!” Bokuto crowed loudly, bounding across the space to the bunks, and ripping open the second from the bottom. There was a resounding groan. 

“Get up and meet the new guy!” he said, bending down to poke at the hidden guitarist, who cursed colourfully. After grumbling for a minute, he climbed out of the bunk. 

Tsukishima had a vague familiarity with all the members of the band from his quick research, but blurry image results didn’t do justice to the aloof pretty boy guitarist of the band; Akaashi was beautiful, full stop. Even with his hair mussed wildly and pillow wrinkle impressions on his cheek, Tsukishima had to force himself not to stare.

“Hey,” Akaashi said, rubbing his hand over his face. 

“Hi,” Tsukishima said. 

“Ah, sorry, Tsukki. Akaashi’s a giant baby when he has a hangover,” Bokuto said cheekily, prodding Akaashi’s cheek. The latter slapped his hand away.

He looked up at Tsukishima, tall, golden stoic Tsukishima, properly then, and the oddest thing happened. A wave of heat eked its way through his whole body and faint colour blossomed in his face, green eyes widening. 

Kuroo looked between them in confusion. 

Tsukishima cocked an eyebrow and Akaashi smirked, saying, “Tsukki?” The name sprung from his lips slowly and with a kind of careful teasing that turned Tsukishima’s face red with embarrassment.

“Don’t call me that.”

“My apologies then, Tsukishima.” This was flatter, more somber and the strange spell was broken. He bowed shortly. “Nice to meet you.” 

“You too, Akaashi.”

“I’m going back to bed,” the guitarist said and attempted to climb back into his bunk, but Bokuto stopped him with a single arm around his waist, hauling him off the ground and onto the couch. To his credit, Akaashi did not yelp or curse or complain, but his scowl could cut glass. 

“Thank you, Bo,” Kuroo said, grinning. “We’re gonna see what this kid is made of.”

Akaashi nodded and Kenma sighed and Bokuto just grinned back. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tsukishima demanded. 

“Jamming,” Yaku answered. 

“In here?”

“In the back lounge,” Akaashi explained, standing. “You’ll want to throw all your stuff in a bunk. We don’t have a road crew so pick whichever empty one you want. Pillow towards the back.”

“Which ones are free?” Tsukishima asked, and Akaashi gestured easily. “Kenma’s on the bottom, Kuroo’s up top, Bokuto’s across from me, and the rest are free,” he said flatly. He didn’t look over his shoulder. “Bokuto snores.”

“Noted,” Tsukishima said slowly. It looked as though the bus slept up to at least eight, with four bunks on either side. He picked the bunk above Akaashi’s. 

They joined the others in the back lounge, a U-shaped, low-ceilinged room with a clusterfuck of instrument cases heaped on the seats. Yaku elected to listen from the front. 

Akaashi helped Kenma set up his keyboard, as it took up the most space, and Tsukishima sat next to him. Kenma leaned away as much as he could without actually laying down on the bench. 

Bokuto parked himself on a wooden box in the limited free space, while Akaashi sat opposite the keyboard with his guitar. Kuroo parked himself on the back of the bench behind Bokuto, who hummed happily to himself, drumming his fingers on the edge of the box-face. 

Without any prompting, Bokuto brought his stool to life. It was a cajon, Tsukishima realized belatedly. A percussion instrument of Peruvian origin - not exactly a drum kit, but the drummer had no trouble whipping up a lively set. The centre beat not unlike a tom-tom, the edge akin to a snare, but there was no pretending it as made of anything but wood. Fascinating. 

Akaashi, tapping his heel, watched Bokuto’s frenetic hands for a few minutes, before looking at Kenma, who shook his head minutely. Akaashi picked a chord, sounded it once (something warm, a major), and launched into a simple pattern that dipped and rose jauntily, somehow matching Bokuto’s enthusiastic tempo. 

Kenma, shooting a glance at Tsukishima, reached the keys tentatively and added a hopping couple of cords, filling out the sound of the other acoustics. It sounded like a keyboard - electric and a little bit fraudulent - to Tsukishima’s ears, but the notes were right. 

Key of G major, a homey set of keys. Akaashi picked the majors to be welcoming. 

Kuroo’s voice, at first a hum and mmm, rose into song above it all, cascading through scales into pseudo-scats. He didn’t care when he hit a discordant note or competed for a melody. 

All the while, he grinned. And all of them watched Tsukishima. 

Tsukishima listened and watched, but felt his hands tied down as though to the ocean floor. 

The waiting gave out and the impromptu song died. 

“Forget how to play?” Kuroo teased. 

In annoyed response, Tsukishima put his hands to the keys and marched diligently through the first minute of the 3rd movement of Beethoven’s fourteenth piano sonata. Kenma laid down to get out of his way. 

There was moment of silence after Tsukishima’s abrupt stop.

“That’s all?” Bokuto asked. “I wanna hear the rest.” 

“Ah,” Akaashi said. “I see.” 

“Sawamura didn’t say anything about that,” Kuroo defended. 

“What?” Tsukishima demanded. 

“You’re a classical musician,” Kenma intoned from his prone position. It was the first thing Kenma had said to him so far. “Which makes you a pain.” 

“We don’t generally write things down,” Akaashi said pointedly.

“Zero scores,” Kuroo added. 

“I actually can’t read music very well at all.” Bokuto had enough chagrin to look a bit sheepish. 

Tsukishima laughed it off. “It’s not like all classical musicians need sheet music to play. That’s ridiculous.”

“Then let’s go again,” Akaashi said, nodding to Bokuto. 

He only gave him eight beats before coming in this time, this time with a slightly more aggressive tune. It was a full sound on its own, and Kenma raised his hands away from the keyboard. ‘All yours,’ he seemed to say. 

Tsukishima picked up his hands, playing off the G major chord they’d used before. 

Akaashi’s eyes narrowed, and he changed key suddenly. The dissonance put Tsukishima’s teeth on edge and he struggled to transpose the same pattern down - it jarred much worse on the keyboard than it did on Akaashi’s guitar.

The guitarist stopped abruptly. “That’s Kenma’s.” 

Tsukishima frowned. 

“Interesting,” Kuroo observed. Kenma let out a breath he was apparently holding. 

“What?” Tsukishima snapped. All these people communicating so obliquely - what assholes. 

“You’re a very skilled copycat,” Akaashi said. He met Tsukishima’s eyes, looking through his lashes, and the latter went pink. 

“But you don’t make music,” Kuroo finished. 

Don’t make music? Tsukishima glared. Playing the piano was a skill, and it produced that which was by all accounts music, didn’t it? 

“There is no such thing as original music.”

“Oh?” Bokuto raised his brows. “You mean like how the dictionary is just a really long remix of the alphabet?” 

“Wha - yes, actually. That’s exactly what I mean.” 

Akaashi frowned, toying idly with the strings on his guitar - something down-to-earth and organic, but also a bit sad. “It’s not the same. Words have meaning.” 

Bokuto hummed a little thinking tune. Infuriatingly, it fit perfectly with Akaashi’s beautiful noodling. “‘Kaashi is right. It’s true in some sense, but like, there’s a reason there’s poetry.”

Tsukishima lowered his hands, which trembled faintly. Smiling brightly, he said, “It’s not as though you have a long list of candidates to choose from, is it?”

Kuroo hummed loudly, monotonously, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling. “Actually, a copycat is probably exactly what we need right now. Congratulations Tsukki,” he said, lowering his chin to give him a mischievous smirk. “You’re one of Them.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make a discovery about Tsukishima.

“Bokuto, for the love of god, please eat a vegetable.”

“Tomatoes are vegetables, aren’t they?”

“The tomato sauce on pizza does not count as a vegetable,” Akaashi sighed.

“That seems like discrimination against deliciousness,” Bokuto countered, contemplating his slice before deciding he could eat his greens later (as Akaashi would surely force him to) and ate half the slice with one bite. 

They were lounging about in the Akaashi and Bokuto’s hotel room, on the last night of their so-called break. While the bus covered the majority of their needs, there was no shower. With five twenty-something year old men living in such close quarters, regular showers were mutually and deeply desired. Usually, that meant going to the gym, but staying in a hotel, in separate rooms, was a necessity of its own.

Kuroo dangled pizza over his mouth, laying on the floor between the beds. 

Kenma watched the potential disaster over the edge of his PSP. 

“My pizza has plenty of vegetables, thank you,” Kuroo said smugly. 

“It has mushrooms.”

“That’s a vegetable.” 

Akaashi leaned over, looking at him with brows raised.

“What? You’re eating pizza too.”

“I also have a salad,” Akaashi said, gesturing with his bowl of greens. “And ran 10k today.” 

“You run 10k every weekend,” Kenma said flatly, back to his game. 

“10k more than you,” Akaashi snorted. 

“Your salad is from Pizza Hut, how healthy can it be?” Kenma scoffed. 

“Settle down, kids,” Kuroo said, sliding all of the cheese and mushrooms off his pizza in one bite. “Where’s Tsukki?”

“In his own room, probably avoiding all of us,” Kenma intoned. 

“It’s not like he hates us, right?” Bokuto said around a mouthful of pizza. 

He might, Akaashi thought. Kuroo raised his brows skeptically. 

“Right? Guys?” Bokuto continued. 

 

Tsukishima sank into the bathtub until the water came up to his chin. It left his knees high and dry out of the lukewarm water. Stupid tubs. Stupid short people who designed them. Was it short people who decided the standard size of bathtubs? Were they the same short people who picked the length of bus bunks?

“Ugh,” he muttered. 

All those guys were impossible to understand. Tsukishima had never thought he would be stuck with such confounding assholes. They were a whole ecosystem unto themselves - they were so casual with each other. Kenma laid in Kuroo’s lap like an old married couple. Bokuto peppered his bandmates with kisses like an overexcited grandmother. Kuroo liked to lean his chin on Akaashi’s shoulder from behind, and wrap his arms around him, and it always made Tsukishima’s insides squirm. And there was no real reason for it. They communicated with looks and silences and invisible gestures. 

It wouldn’t be long until they started in on him. 

He shuddered at the thought. Thank god for hotel breaks. Gyms didn’t cut it for privacy. Tsukishima wasn’t an athletic guy; watching Bokuto bench double his own bodyweight wasn’t exactly encouraging either. 

The water was getting cold and despite starting to shiver, he was loathe to get out and face what his life was now. 

He dunked his face under the water. 

‘But it really could be worse,’ he thought to himself. He might have even smiled to himself. 

After the water got too cold to stand anymore, he climbed out and dried himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist. There was a short knock at the door.  
Sliding his glasses on, he padded over and opened the door to find Akaashi standing there with his fingers knotted behind his back, looking at him through his lashes. 

Tsukishima found himself blushing despite himself, remembering he was just in a towel. 

“Is this a bad time?” Akaashi asked, gaze wandering down to Tsukishima’s towel and back up, over his bare torso, to his face. 

“No. What did you want?” Tsukishima said, leaning on the door. 

“To see if you wanted to join us downstairs. We’re having a drink for Kenma’s last night.” He raised his brows. “Unless you had other plans.”

Tsukishima cleared his throat. “Let me get dressed.” He stood back to let him in; Akaashi slid past him, a little smirk on his lips. 

“No taste for pizza?” he asked, taking in the contents of Tsukishima’s bag strewn across the bed, his old scores covered in smudged pencil, a battered notebook with dog-eared pages. 

“We’ve eaten pizza three times this week,” Tsukishima said, scowling. “I don’t understand how you all can eat any more of it.” He pulled some clean jeans from the pile. 

Akaashi shrugged. “It’s just part of tour life I suppose.”

“A diet consisting of pizza pops, pizza and diet soda?”

“You’d be surprised how many pizza places also sell salad and pasta.”

“Does that really make it healthy?” Tsukishima said, ducking into the bathroom to get dressed. 

Akaashi laughed, just a moment. Somehow, it was insufferably endearing.

Over the last two weeks, Akaashi had been Tsukishima’s biggest problem. Not for the same reasons as the others, but because it was all too easy for Akaashi to fluster him with a look, a word, a motion or touch. Passing too closely in the passages was almost too much. Even worse, sometimes Tsukishima was able to coax some colour into Akaashi’s face and his brain conjured all kinds of other images and things he could do to maybe change Akaashi’s expression. It was a pleasant way to pass the time.

It was deeply distracting.

And Kenma was always watching him with his unnerving, soul-piercing gaze, like he could see right into his embarrassing fantasies. 

Akaashi fixed him with a similar look as he stepped back out of the bathroom, rubbing his towel on his hair. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

“Can I ask you a question, Akaashi?” Tsukishima mused. 

“As long as it’s not necessary that I answer,” Akaashi said coolly, leaning his weight on one hip.

This is ridiculous, Tsukishima thought. He has to know that he’s doing that. 

What THAT was was another question, perhaps best left for later. 

“What the hell is going on with all of you?”

Akaashi pursed his lips. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“Th-the constant touching, and flirting. It’s not-“

“Normal?” Akaashi offered.

“Not exactly platonic, is what I was going to say.” Tsukishima put his hand on his hip. 

Akaashi watched Tsukishima closely, gaging his response. “We’ve known each other for a long time,” he said slowly, “and gave up on certain pretences eons ago.” 

Tsukishima frowned. “What does that mean?” 

Akaashi smirked, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “You’re a clever guy, Tsukishima. Let’s head down.” 

“That’s not an answer,” he complained, following Akaashi out the door.

“I didn’t promise you one.” Akaashi held his wrist behind his back as he walked, fingers tapping at the hollow on his forearm. 

“How did you get into playing guitar?” Tsukishima asked. 

“The great Google didn’t tell you?” Akaashi teased, tossing a look over his shoulder. Tsukishima never should have admitted to Googling them at all. 

“You’re an asshole.”

“That makes two of us.” 

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, taking a couple of long strides to walk beside the guitarist.

“Seriously, how?” 

Akaashi hummed to himself for a moment. “You answer a question for each I answer. Fair?” 

“Fine.”

“I fell in love with the guitar when I started junior high. It was an easy switch.”

There was a moment of silence, and Akaashi chanced a side glance at Tsukishima’s sharp golden gaze. It demanded more answers. 

“Before you waste a question on it, I started out as a violinist.”

“A violinist? Were you any good?” 

“Do you really wanna waste a question on that?”

“Do you want to waste yours on that? Are they finite?”

“I don’t know, are they?”

“It’s your game, isn’t it?” 

“You started it.”

“What are you, twelve?”

Akaashi stuck his tongue out, raising his hand to his forehead in the shape of an L and blew a raspberry. Somehow, without smiling. 

They stared at each other for a whole minute in front of the elevator before the laughter started, their voices carrying raucously through the hallway. Akaashi had tears in his eyes and Tsukishima was doubled over, and someone a few doors down the hallway poked their head out and yelled at them to be quiet. 

“You didn’t press the button,” Akaashi finally managed, smiling widely. 

“Neither did you!” Tsukishima shot back, hitting the call button for the elevator. 

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh, Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima rubbed a hand over his mouth, avoiding Akaashi’s look. 

“And for the record, I was an excellent violinist. Professional even.” They headed into the elevator. “My turn.” 

 

Kuroo slid his arm across the top of the bench around Kenma’s shoulders. Bokuto was taking his time showering and coming down from his and Akaashi’s hotel room. 

“He’s not bad,” Kenma said, fiddling with his phone.

“But?” Kuroo asked.

“I wonder if he’ll last.” Kenma glanced at his friend fleetingly. “Tsukishima learns quickly because he’s good at copying what he hears, but I don’t know if he’ll be any good on stage. He’s … dispassionate.”

“The same has been said about you, y’know,” Kuroo drawled. 

Kenma wrinkled his nose. “Not by any of us, and that’s the thing. He’s not like us.” 

“Hmm,” Kuroo muttered, eyes scanning the restaurant leisurely. “Are you still sure about this, Kenma?”

He nodded. “I think it’s for the best.”

Kuroo sighed, and Kenma could feel the breath rush in and out of his friends chest. “I still don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t.” Kuroo would do this sort of thing for the rest of his life, Kenma thought. He’d gladly live his life on the stage, grinding through every challenge with grit and a grin. 

“I guess not. What do you want?” Kuroo waved a waitress over, tired of waiting for their friends. It’s not like he didn’t know what they’d be drinking anyways. 

“Hot toddy,” Kenma muttered, staring at his phone to avoid eye contact with the waitress. 

“You got it.” Kuroo placed an order for Kenma’s drink, beers for himself and Bokuto, a long island for Akaashi (more to annoy than anything) and a gin and tonic for Tsukki. 

“Akaashi is never going to live it down,” Kenma observed, smirking to himself, as the waitress returned to the lounge bar to place their order. 

“Fucking never.”

 

By the time they joined the others in the lounge downstairs, Akaashi had learned only one new thing about Tsukishima - he liked strawberry shortcake. It was a delightful tidbit that he elected to keep for himself. 

“What took you two so long?” Kuroo asked, stretching his arms behind his head. 

“Couldn’t find the right number,” Akaashi said, waving at Bokuto to skooch over and let him and Tsukishima into the booth. 

Kenma was tucked under Kuroo’s protective arm on the other side, Bokuto between them and Akaashi - as always - drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. The pianist nursed a hot mug of what looked like tea in his hands. 

Akaashi looked at Kenma, a faint smile on his face. “Isn’t it a bit warm out for a hot toddy?”

“Not really,” Kenma muttered. 

“I thought you didn’t drink, Kenma,” Tsukishima said, raising his brows.

“I don’t think I ever said that, but I don’t like being drunk, so.” He shrugged. 

“Kuroo already ordered your drinks,” Bokuto said, sliding glasses towards them. Akaashi eyed the drink before shooting a dirty look at Kuroo. “Really?”

Kuroo grinned widely and winked at him, to which Akaashi rolled his eyes and picked up the offensive drink anyways. 

Tsukishima furrowed his brows, clearly very curious, but his pride kept him from saying anything about it. “Gin and tonic?” he asked, inspecting the short glass before him.

“It seems like something you would drink,” Kuroo said. 

“Lucky guess.” It irked Tsukishima how much these people noticed about him. He took a sip anyways. 

“Toast, toast, toast,” Bokuto chanted, eyes bright. 

“Give us a toast, Leader,” Akaashi added, leaning his chin into his palm and sipping his drink. 

Tsukishima said nothing as Kenma swallowed. 

Kuroo cleared his throat, patting Bokuto’s shoulder as he stood, drink in hand. 

“Dearly beloved. We gather here today to celebrate the short-lived but probably not totally over career of our very own Kozume Kenma. Long may his memory live,” he said with a grand sweep of his arm, dramatic voice tolling across the restaurant. Kenma gave a squeak. 

“I’m not dead!” he hissed.

Kuroo grinned at him, that going-to-cause-trouble look that never seemed to be far from his lips. “So dwindle the opportunities to embarrass him in public, and bring shame upon us, Them.” 

Akaashi chuckled as Kenma stared at his friend with annoyance written all over his face. “You all promised - no pranks.”

Kuroo laughed. “Fine, fine. To Kenma, our brilliant mind behind the scenes, with the killer chord progressions, and even more lethal comebacks. I hope your next stage is as cool as ours.”

They raised their drinks to Kenma’s name. 

Tsukishima couldn’t help but notice how many eyes they drew from other patrons. His skin crawled, just a bit, but it really hit home suddenly that he was supposed to go up on stage tomorrow to play with these people. 

There would be no hiding behind music stands, behind rows of strings and woodwinds and brass, no sheet music to rely on. 

He knocked back most of his drink in one shot. The rest of the group stared at him, to which he just repeated, “To Kenma.” 

 

Tsukishima needed some air. There was a smidge too much gin in his blood for his comfort and their increasing antics were drawing a lot of attention. Just as he made a move to get up, Akaashi perked up and said, “They have a piano.” 

Kuroo and Bokuto’s exuberant conversation died immediately, eyes rounding towards the upright piano standing forlorn by the bar. Bokuto flagged down a waiter, pointing to it. “Can we play that?”

The man raised a brow. “Depends. Are you going to drive out the other customers if I say yes?”

“Absolutely not. We’re musicians,” Akaashi said flatly. 

“Then have at it,” the waiter said, removing an empty plate and moving along. 

“It’s not a proper send off without a song,” Bokuto announced, grinning and slapping a hand on Kenma’s back. He choked on his drink and shot a glare at Bokuto. “C’mon, Tsukki.” 

Tsukishima refused to look at the piano, so clearly in sight for so many people. So clearly within listening range. “No.” 

“Why not?” Kuroo teased. “Not a big enough crowd to deserve your stunning forgery?”

“It’s not forgery,” Tsukishima snapped, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

“That’s a lame excuse,” Kuroo pouted. “You’ve only had a couple drinks.”

Tsukishima pointed pushed his glass away from himself. “I’m not uselessly hot-blooded like you. I don’t want to.”

“Not even for Kenma?” Bokuto prodded. 

“You are his sorry replacement after all.”

“Kuroo, be nice,” Akaashi said around the lip of his raised drink. Kuroo smirked wickedly. 

“Still a sorry excuse. There’s barely anyone else here.” Kuroo glanced around them. Aside from a family in another booth, and an elderly couple at a table, there were a few individuals at the bar. 

“It’s not worth it for this few people.” 

Akaashi observed Tsukishima, stubbornly refusing to even look at the instrument he excelled at, and it clicked. 

“Say, Tsukishima,” he asked, cupping his glass with both hands. “Do you suffer from stage fright, by chance?”

He froze, gaze down. 

Akaashi waited, and the others were silent, staring at him. 

A minute passed and Tsukishima grew pale. 

And paler. 

Pale to the point of turning grey. 

“Tsukishima?” Kenma prompted quietly.

“I need air,” Tsukishima hissed, pushing out of his seat and storming out of the lounge with his shoulders raised. 

Kuroo, Kenma, Bokuto and Akaashi shared a look, apprehension settling over their jolly mood like heavy wet snow. "That answers that," Kenma said with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this? regular updates? 
> 
> tune in next month for another stupid short chapter in this just-for-fun fic!
> 
> but seriously, thanks to everyone who's reading and coming back to read this far. i hope you enjoy! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tsukishima's stage fright is a source of stress for everyone in the band, but Akaashi is determined to talk to him because the show must go on.

There was a long moment of quiet in the restaurant after Tsukishima’s stormy departure. 

“Should we go after him?” Bokuto asked finally. 

“If he doesn’t come back in a few minutes, I’ll go,” Akaashi volunteered. 

“You’re the one who set him off,” Kenma pointed out, to Akaashi’s annoyance. 

“He’s not going to come back,” Kuroo sighed. “I can basically guarantee it.” 

They all paused to consider, and the consensus was there; Tsukishima wasn’t going to return in a few minutes. In fact, it seemed that they could all agree that it wasn’t going to pass on its own, overnight, like a bout of food poisoning. Tsukishima’s paralyzing stage fright had not appeared all of a sudden. 

They exchanged a sigh, a slope of the shoulders. 

“I’m not taking it back,” Kenma finally said. 

“But Kenmaaaaa!” Kuroo whined.

“Absolutely not.” 

 

“Tsukishima-“ Akaashi started. The boxes in his arms were stacked high enough to muffle his voice.

“I can take those,” the tall blond said sharply, taking three of the boxes from the guitarist (leaving him with only one) and turning immediately towards the stage door. Akaashi stared after him, frowning.

“Akaaaaaaaashi,” Bokuto said, leaning over his friends shoulder. Anyone else would have jumped or startled, but Akaashi did neither. He and Bokuto had been friends for as long as Akaashi could remember.

“What, Bokuto?”

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” Bokuto watched the tall figure of their new pianist disappear into the venue. 

“We’ll see.”

As they had collectively predicted, Tsukishima had retreated to his hotel room. He returned to their tour bus the next morning for the last leg of travel, but wore his headphones constantly and made little to no conversation with any of them.

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would agree to do something if he truly hated it,” Bokuto mused, running his hand through his hair. “It would be too much of a hassle.”

Before he could continue his insightful musing, Kuroo leapt down the steps from the bus and immediately called the drummer over to help lug the heavier equipment inside. 

After so many shows, and always being their own crew, it was a wonder that it still required so much yelling to get things done. Perhaps it was because they had parted with Kenma earlier that day that things felt off balance. Kuroo had been sniffing periodically for the last few hours; the two were rarely far apart, having been friends and neighbours just as long as Akaashi and Bokuto. 

And yet, it took nearly two hours for them to get everything inside the building and set up. 

“We’ve got an hour to get lunch before the sound check,” Kuroo finally announced, dusting his hands off on his black pants. 

Akaashi nudged Bokuto, who was laying spread eagle on the stage, with his foot. The drummer shot Akaashi a look before jerking his chin towards Tsukishima, who did not seem to have heard Kuroo. He was standing next to the keyboard, fingers pantomiming his parts, lips moving silently. His chest rose and fell quickly. 

Bokuto met Akaashi eyes, concern written across his face. Maybe his insight was wrong. 

Akaashi shook his head a fraction. “Tsukishima,” he called. “It’s time for lunch.”

Tsukishima looked up at him, jaw clenched. “Pass,” he said. 

“It wasn’t really a question,” Kuroo added.

Tsukishima glared at him. “Pass,” he repeated through grit teeth.

Kuroo raised his brows, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t blame us when you’re dying of hunger later.”

Bokuto rolled onto his feet, clapping his hands and enjoying the acoustics of the stage. “Anyone else feel like tacos?”

“Not personally,” Akaashi said. 

Bokuto stuck out his bottom lip, and Akaashi rolled his eyes. “Tacos sounds fine, Bokuto.”

“We’ll bring one back for Tsukki so he doesn’t starve,” Kuroo added, earning another glare. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a Mexican place a few kilometres from here,” Akaashi said, checking his phone. 

“How many is a few?” Kuroo groaned. Akaashi’s definition of walking distance was skewed, as far as the rest of the band was concerned. 

“Four.” 

Definitely skewed. “We’ll take a cab.”

“Only because it was take more than an hour to walk there and back,” Akaashi said. 

 

Tsukishima could barely stomach the thought of food. After the other three had finally left, he curled up on the couch in the abandoned green room and tried to remember how to breathe. 

Kenma had assured him that it wasn’t going to be large venues. It was a cultural centre, this show, with no assigned seating. Like a high school gymnasium. He’d thought, at the time, that he could handle that. The stakes were different when you were playing in a high school gym. 

It wasn’t a high school gym. Tsukishima could see the similarities, but it escaped many of the trappings of such a place. It was far more like a hall or ballroom. There were 200 tickets sold. It was big enough to fill but small enough that they would be able to see the audience with the lights low. 

“Why did I do this?” he growled, out loud to no one, but perhaps hoping for an answer anyways. Of course, none came. 

Inhale, hold, and exhale. Tsukishima forced himself to count it in his head; four beats in, seven beats hold, eight beats out. It didn’t fit in common time and it distracted him, so he had to switch to four, four and eight, but it made him feel short of breath, so he switched to six, six, eight and so on. 

Needless to say, but he was struggling to relax. 

The sound of voices carrying down the hall jolted him to his feet. The hour had passed too fast for his liking. 

Akaashi poked his head. “I thought you might be in here. We’re going to start sound check soon.” 

Tsukishima swallowed. “Okay.”

He frowned, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “Tsukishima, I wanted to apologize for calling you out last night. I did not mean to hurt you.” His voice was soft, but Tsukishima could hear every syllable clearly over the pounding of his heart.

“You didn’t,” Tsukishima said shortly. 

Akaashi blinked. “Be that as it may, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place.” 

Tsukishima struggled for a moment. Four, seven, eight. “Whatever, Akaashi,” he said flippantly. His voice sounded thin. “We have sound check.” 

Akaashi’s frown deepened as Tsukishima crossed the room. For a moment, it seemed as though the guitarist was going to barricade the door, but he stepped aside to let Tsukishima pass, following after. 

 

Kuroo was terrible, interspersed with moments of brilliance. He was taking full advantage of the sound check, and his own voice sounding back to him throughout the venue to be as much of an irritant as he could. His voice would slide from nasally impressions of an old lady with a cold to the bottom of his throat, notes so low that words became just sound, his chin tucked into his chest. Sometimes, between the extremes, he’d sing like he usually did, with a bit of a rasp on the edges of his voice and clear tone. 

All of it got under Tsukishima’s skin as he mechanically paced through each piece of their set list. I hate standing while I play, he thought. 

Akaashi took his liberties too, with solos turning into the main theme of My Neighbour Totoro, or the Spiderman Theme. His expression would stay flat and passive as the improv became more and more comical, including commercial jingles that were (and this was the worst) in a different time signature. 

If he wasn’t so annoyed, Tsukishima might have thought to appreciate how easy Akaashi and Kuroo made it look to fuck around so much. It took enormous skill to play as they were.   
No one gave Bokuto the space to deviate, but they’d never been so shortsighted when they were writing their songs to let percussion be any less interesting and demanding. He was already sweating through his shirt. 

Lights came up and down as they played, sometimes drowning them in darkness for whole songs or creating a kaleidoscope of colours that cascaded over the stage and made Tsukishima see spots. 

Akaashi caught his eye and tapped his ear piece, raising his eyebrows and jerking his chin towards Tsukishima. Is your earpiece okay? 

Tsukishima hadn’t even been wearing his. He stuffed it into his ear, and nodded. He hadn’t performed with one before, as it wasn’t necessary in classical music.   
Akaashi gave him the thumbs up, and returned to playing. This time it was Seven Nation Army. 

“Akaashi, that’s not even hard! Also not for guitars!” Kuroo complained. 

Akaashi stuck out his tongue. The white lights that flooded the stage caught on the silver in his mouth.

“I think we’re good, guys!” the sound guy called, waving his arm at them from the booth. “Do you want to run anything else?”

Kuroo shook his head, giving two thumbs up. 

“So we’re done for now?” Tsukishima asked.

“For now,” Akaashi said. 

The tall blonde turned and stalked off stage with not another word said.

“He’s starting to scare me, Akaashi.” Kuroo leaned his elbow on Akaashi’s shoulder. “If he doesn’t calm down in the next hour or two, he’s going to choke.” 

“I’ll talk to him.”

“How? He’s been avoiding us all day. You especially.”

Akaashi considered. “Mutual experience.” 

“You’ve only known the guy for two weeks. That’s not a lot to go on.”

“Stage fright isn’t an uncommon phenomenon, Kuroo.”

“But it’s one you’ve never suffered from, Mr Cool-Under-Pressure,” he said pointedly. 

“Are you planning on being the one to talk to him then?” Akaashi said sharply, arching one brow. 

Kuroo raised his hands. “Sorry. I’ll leave it to you.” 

 

Akaashi found Tsukishima in the bathroom furthest from the green room, retching on his anxiety. 

Tsukishima nearly took Akaashi out when he appeared, leaning against the edge of the stall. 

“Leave me alone,” Tsukishima groaned, running a hand over his mouth.

“I see why you weren’t hungry,” Akaashi said dryly. 

“Please.”

“Pass.” 

“Ugh, I hate you,” Tsukishima grumbled, flushing away the remnants of his breakfast and pushing past Akaashi out of the stall to wash his hands and mouth. 

“Question for question,” Akaashi demanded. 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Why should I?”

“This is our job. Our livelihood and reputations are staked on it,” Akaashi said. “But we also don’t want you to force yourself if it will hurt you.”

Tsukishima exhaled. “Fine.”

“How long has this been an issue for you?” Akaashi started.

“Since I was about 18. Have you ever had it?” Tsukishima answered as though it was painful to admit.

“Unusually, never. Bokuto can attest. How did you manage it while you were in school?”

“Poorly.”

“More detail, please.”

Tsukishima glared. “A lot like this.” 

Akaashi sensed that he wasn’t going to get much more on this topic as Tsukishima leaned against the counter, removing his glasses and pressing his palms against his eyes. 

“Why am I like this?” he muttered.

“Because it’s scary to share your music with strangers,” Akaashi said, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question. “You don’t hate music, do you?”

“Of course not,” Tsukishima snapped. “But its just-”

“Just what?”

“Nothing. It’s not your turn.” 

“Then ask your question.” 

He sucked in a deep breath. “How the hell do I make it through tonight?”

Akaashi smiled. “You’re a good musician, Tsukishima. You can trust your skills, right?”

He shook his head. “When I get up on stage, my mind goes totally blank.” 

“You can play with us just fine.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” Akaashi pressed. 

“How? Because we’re all on the same page, I guess. The goal is the same.” 

Akaashi waited a minute, before leaning on the counter beside Tsukishima. “The Ominous Them has been together for almost ten years. Granted, we were a shitty high school garage band playing covers at local bars for a long time. It was a struggle to get anyone to listen to our original stuff. But at our first show opening for RedYellow, there were enough people in the crowd who knew our songs that we could hear them singing with us.”

Tsukishima stared at him.

“It was the greatest feeling in the world. Those people were on the same page as us.” Akaashi smiled to himself. “So if it’s a matter of us vs them, it’s worth knowing that we are Them.” 

“I … hadn’t thought of it that way,” Tsukishima admitted. 

“There’s plenty of adjudicators in classical music, especially when you’re in school, so it makes sense that it’s part of how you see music. I used to see it that way too.” 

“How did you stop?”

“I stopped playing what other people wanted me to. Why do you play piano?”

“Because it’s what I’m good at. Why do you play guitar?”

“Because I love it,” Akaashi said bluntly. “Why did you keep playing the piano before you were good at it?”

Tsukishima blinked. “Because my brother played piano, and I thought it was fun.”

Akaashi clapped him on the shoulder. “Try and remember that tonight. As much as this is our job, we chose it because we love it. That goes for you too.”

Tsukishima rubbed his shoulder. “You’re all so earnest about it. I don’t get it.”

“Some day, Tsukishima. Feel better?”

Begrudgingly, he nodded. 

“If you start to panic, focus on me, okay?” Akaashi said, winking. Tsukishima turned a curious shade of pink and Akaashi couldn’t fathom why exactly he’d done that.

“Stick to the set list then, idiot. I’m not here to play a bunch of TV themes and shitty jingles.” 

“Fine, whatever, Tsukishima,” Akaashi laughed. “Let’s head back.”

“Mm,” Tsukishima agreed. His stomach grumbled loudly as they left the bathroom.

“Are you still nauseous?” Akaashi asked. 

“Not anymore, no.” Tsukishima said. The bulk of his anxiety was buried underneath Akaashi’s advice. 

“We brought back a taco salad for you. It’s in the fridge in the green room. Make sure you eat before we go on stage.”

 

The buzz of voices beyond the curtain was dissonant against the quiet on stage. Tsukishima was shaking, despite himself, and the strange attire he found himself in didn’t help. Bokuto had claimed it would help him feel like he was playing a part, but Tsukishima had never been a good actor. Who wore jeans with holes already in them, anyways? Why did Kuroo own more than one pair of them? Was it tacky to wear mercy from the band he was in? 

Did any of it matter?

Bokuto grinned down at them, twirling his drumsticks in his hands. He’s changed into a tank top and a completely mesh t-shirt. It helped with the heat, he’d said. 

Kuroo bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. Apparently Tsukishima wasn’t the only one with nerves. 

Akaashi shot him a smile, which just made him nervous in an entirely different way. 

Bokuto raised his sticks and slammed the kick drum twice, like a heart beat. 

BA-BUMP. 

The crowd went silent. 

Bokuto did it again. 

BA-BUMP.

The voices rose in an excited wave. 

Bokuto added the snare drum this time. 

The chant started and swelled quickly: “Them! Them! Them!” 

Kuroo and Akaashi shared a grin and even Tsukishima found himself smiling. 

As the curtain rose and the roar of noise came over them and glimmering excitement raced through him, he thought that maybe this was fun after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost didn't make it this month! (definitely wrote the vast majority of this chapter today, so excuse the first-draft feel of it.)
> 
> RedYellow is the name of the band they were touring with right before Kenma quit, and their front man is Terushima. you'll see them again in later chapters, but i also can't remember why i chose to call them that or why Terushima was the lead for it, but it was in my notes so there must be a reason. it'll come back to me later.
> 
> hope you enjoy! :P


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post show celebrations. Tsukishima is stubbourn, but they don't mind.

“Tsukki?”

Yamaguchi’s voice, even directly into his ear via phone speaker, was indistinct below the strange adrenaline-induced humming. Maybe he’d gone deaf from all the screaming. His hands were shaking. 

“It went well,” Tsukishima managed. His eyes followed Kuroo being lifted into the air by a very sweaty and somehow still energetic Bokuto, like Simba being presented. Akaashi smiled through his fingers. The empty venue hallways echoed every sound, no matter how far back Tsukishima hung. 

“And?” Yamaguchi prompted. 

“And … it was good.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Still scared, huh?” 

Tsukishima exhaled loudly, like he’d been holding his breath for the whole show. He hadn’t, of course. He’d yelled and sang along with the rest of them, with the rest of the crowd, despite himself, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling of too-full lungs.

Yamaguchi laughed softly. “Getting up on stage like that takes tons of courage, even without stage fright, so congratulations, Tsukki.” 

“Shut up, Yamaguchi.” 

“I’m glad you had fun. Go celebrate or sulk or something.” 

"I'm not doing either of those things," he complained. "I'm hanging up."

"Sure, Tsukki," Yamaguchi laughed. "Call me tomorrow, okay? I want to hear more about when you stop being in shock." 

"Whatever. Talk to you later." Tsukishima hung up on his friends as he laughed. The venue staff appeared to collect keys and ultimately kick them out now that they'd struck down the set and backed everything back into the bus (with the help of quite a few staff and ushers). 

 

The bar was a dive in so many senses of the word. It was kitschy, dark and a little bit grungy. It was absolutely packed. Bokuto insisted, and Kuroo agreed, that they take their turn to go out and have a good time. 

Such times were had pretty frequently, Tsukishima thought.

Akaashi didn’t really disagree with him, but had no problem with it. 

Ordering drinks was a struggle over the music and the laughter and other people also yelling in place of talking, but they managed to snag a gaggle of beers and the end of a standing-only table several treacherous steps from the dance floor.

“The music isn’t bad,” Akaashi said, leaning in to yell in Tsukishima’s ear. Somehow, it didn’t seem like shouting. (Not to mention that the guitarist’s breath on his neck made it hard to actually focus on what he was saying.)

Tsukishima just shrugged. Bokuto shimmied his shoulders to the beat, head bopping in time. He was clearly antsy to dance, owlish eyes following the crowd and catching on the comfortable and the charismatic.

Kuroo, after watching his friend squirm, offered him his hand in a dramatic offer to dance; fingertips spread over his chest, lips pursed, chin tilted arrogantly. Bokuto’s mouth made a circle, as he clutched his heart and gently placed his hand in Kuroo’s. Tsukishima rolled his eyes. 

Kuroo extended his other hand to Akaashi, who just shook his head once, raising his beer as explanation. 

“Suit yourself,” Kuroo concluded. He pulled Bokuto in close, arm going around his waist and raising his other hand out towards the dance floor in a caricature of a tango. Kuroo winked at them, smirking widely, and marched them onto the floor. 

“How can two professional musicians be so off the beat?” Tsukishima wondered. Akaashi laughed at his grimace, leaning on the sticky table. 

“It’s fine, isn’t it?” he said. He watched his two bandmates attempt to tango and swing at the same time, culminating in a competition to see who could dip the other the farthest, the fastest. Tsukishima couldn’t imagine what sort of debris was collecting at the tips of their hair where they dusted the floor. 

Tsukishima shrugged. Akaashi tapped his fingers along with the beat, drinking his bear, playing ignorant of Tsukishima side-glances. One of the bartenders arrived at their table with four shots. “From a fan, apparently. You guys did a show or something tonight?” she said. 

Akaashi nodded, giving her a smile as she left. 

Kuroo’s head popped up over the dance floor, brows raised. Akaashi raised one of the shots up, pointing at the bassist, who shook his head and gestured for him to take it. Akaashi nodded, and knocked it back like it was nothing. 

“What?” he asked, noting Tsukishima’s staring. 

Tsukishima closed his mouth and accepted his shot. He’d never been a big fan of shots - they seemed to embody the impulsiveness he found so irreverent - but he took it nonetheless. Joining this entire endeavour had been an impulsive decision anyways. 

They clinked tiny classes and took their shots. Tsukishima coughed on the burning sensation, to which Akaashi thumped him on the back, smiling. Bokuto appeared at the edge of the dance floor, beckoning. 

Akaashi downed the last of his beer. “Coming?” he asked. 

“Fuck no,” Tsukishima said sharply. Akaashi laughed as Bokuto excitedly took his shot and mimicked lassoing Akaashi and reeling him in on a fishing line. 

Akaashi joined him, leaving Tsukishima by himself to watch and contemplate his life.

It would have been easier to sort out his thoughts and feelings if Akaashi didn’t move like that. 

Somehow, it had become something of a dance-off in their little clearing, and Akaashi was clearly dominating with that thing he did with his hips, that somehow made it seem like the music emanated from him, followed him, instead of the other way around. Kuroo’s own dancing had ground to a halt, as caught up in it as Tsukishima while Bokuto hooted at him like a fucking owl. 

Akaashi’s eyes caught Tsukishima’s and his face flood with heat as he looked away. He could hear the hollers of laughter and banter in response, and when he snuck another look (because honestly, would he rather stare into his drink than the incredibly magnetic dance moves killing the dance competition), Akaashi glanced his way once more, and smirking, winked. 

Tsukishima hurriedly downed what little remained of his drink and found it wanting to cool the sudden heat coursing through him. He couldn’t stop himself; he looked at them again. 

This time, Bokuto had dipped Akaashi quite suddenly, as the guitarist’s hands were seized up in the laughing drummer’s shirt, eyes wide. Kuroo wrapped his arms around his stomach, laughing through Akaashi’s curses as he swatted at Bokuto to let him up. 

What a loud, ludicrous, raucous, crowded life he’d walked into. What ridiculous, beyond common sense people he’d walked into a life with. It couldn’t possibly be real. 

Kuroo beckoned him, and Tsukishima flipped him the bird.

Just because it couldn’t possibly be real didn’t mean he was any different a person. 

 

The bar closed at one a.m., and the four of them shuffled out with the rest of the crowd. Bokuto continued to jive to no music in particular while Kuroo was having an deafening conversation with Akaashi about t-shirt canons. 

“Do you have any idea how many boxes of shirts I have at home, Akaashi?” he was shouting. The music had clearly deafened him.

“Ten, plus one IKEA bag,” Akaashi said plainly. 

“That bag probably holds more than all the boxes combined.”

“It does not.” 

“You’ve clearly never been to IKEA.”

“We go to one every single time the opportunity presents itself. Bokuto always gets a double portion of meatballs, and you can never remember if you like elderflower or not.” 

“That is besides the point, Akaashi. My point is that a t-shirt gun is the perfect way to drum up some hype and sell tickets.”

Akaashi paused to consider. “Do you think IKEA sells garment guns?” he mused. 

Kuroo stared at him, mouth agape. 

“They most certainly do not,” Tsukishima intoned.

“How can you be sure?” Akaashi replied.

He shrugged. “I’ve read the catalog.”

“The whole thing?” Bokuto asked, arms behind his head. 

“What else are you supposed to do when you get stuck in IKEA overnight?”

Kuroo, Akaashi, and Bokuto all ground to a halt, staring at him. 

He stopped walking, hands shoved in his pockets. “What?” 

“You have so many secrets,” Bokuto whispered loudly. “I want to know all of them.”

“Like hell!” Tsukishima scoffed. 

Kuroo looped his arm through the pianist’s. “Come on, grumpy. The night’s not over.” 

“Uggghh,” he complained, tilting his head back. He let Kuroo and the others lead him away from the milling crowd in search of a cab. 

 

This seems like a dumber idea than joining this band, Tsukishima thought, watching Bokuto and Akaashi sitting on the roof of the bus. Even though he’d watched the drummer literally hoist the much slighter Akaashi over his head to climb on top and still more impressive feat of Bokuto taking a running approach, managing one upwards step on the back of the bus before Akaashi caught his hand and yanked him the rest of the way. How did a guy who just ran all the time have that much strength. 

“Absolutely not,” Tsukishima declared as Kuroo leaned against the bus, waiting.

“I promise I’ll catch you if you fall.”

“Not comforting.”

“Come on, Tsukki, humour us?” 

That collective us, that united front. It got under his skin, made his loneliness itch. Scowling, he approached. Kuroo made a cradle of his hands and Bokuto and Akaashi waited at the edge of the bus. 

“Ready?”

“It’s not like I get a choice.”

“Good boy.” Kuroo smirked, and counted down. 

Akaashi and Bokuto each caught his hands and pulled him up. 

“Why isn’t there a ladder on this thing!” Tsukishima gasped, immediately sitting down to combat the sudden height. 

“Probably to stop us,” Akaashi said, pausing to pulling Kuroo the rest of the way up, “from doing exactly this. Usually we just climb through the sky light.”

“Why did we come up this way then!” 

He shrugged a shoulder. “Novelty.” 

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. 

The cool night joined them on the top of the bus as they all sat (or in Kuroo’s case, languish across the roof) and Akaashi produced a package of sparklers. 

“Where those in your sock all night?” Tsukishima asked. 

“Only part of it.”

“Why?”

“To celebrate, obviously.” He passed a sparkler to each of them and Kuroo produced a lighter. 

They lit Tsukishima’s first. They were the long kinds (the metal ends must have been stabbing Akaashi in the knee for hours) and the cascade of dandelion wish sparks lit up the darkness in a peppy little cackle. The smell of sulphur lingered. 

Soon, all four sparkles were chatting happily, eating up it’s little magnesium coating. 

“Welcome to the band, Tsukki,” Kuroo said softly. “And thanks. Honestly.”

“What for?” Tsukishima said, swishing the sparkler faintly. 

“Kenma waited until the last minute, and it kind of sucked,” Bokuto said. “I’m not mad at him, but it put us all in jeopardy.”

“In jeopardy seems a bit excessive,” Tsukishima said. The focus was making him uncomfortable. 

“I told you before, this is our livelihood,” Akaashi said. He sat with his legs crossed. “So it means a lot that you dropped everything to help a bunch of strangers.” 

Tsukishima stayed quiet. He supposed he should be glad to be useful. It was more than he’d felt before. It wasn’t the whole truth, though, to say he’d dropped everything specifically to help them. He’d already dropped everything and given up on picking anything up. 

Akaashi nudged him. “We’re glad that you’re you too.”

“What does that mean?” 

Akaashi looked at him then, brows raised just slightly. “It means that we like you, Tsukishima. While you aren’t a perfect fit, you fit well enough.”

“… Oh.” Now that was a different kind of heat, a soft warmth that spread from his chest to fill him up entirely. Being wanted was a new thing. 

Bokuto leaned over and punched his shoulder. “You’re stuck with us now.”

“The horror,” Tsukishima deadpanned, but he smiled to himself and although he wasn’t look, he could tell they were too. 

The sparklers sizzled out, and eventually, they were all laying on the top of the bus, staring at the brightest, bravest stars that appeared through the city light haze. 

“It makes you feel kind of small doesn’t it?” Bokuto said quietly. 

“All your problems, too.” Kuroo added. 

Tsukishima hummed in response. 

As the ensuing quiet continued, he glanced over at Akaashi. He appeared to be fast asleep. 

“Akaashi’s asleep,” Tsukishima announced. 

“Akaaaaaaaaaaashi!” Bokuto called, to which Akaashi murmured, “‘m awake.” 

“Are you though?” Tsukishima asked.

“Nnn,” Akaashi groaned.

“You won’t be able to get down if you’re asleep.”

“Sssh,” Akaashi hissed, brow creasing. 

Tsukishima smiled. “Don’t complain about your back hurting tomorrow.” 

Kuroo laughed softly, and it so was full of fondness and familiarity that Tsukishima felt like falling for the thrill and the frustration and the novelty might not be so bad. 

"Hey, Tsukki. How did you end up stuck in IKEA?" Bokuto asked. 

"Ugh! I'm not telling you!" Tsukishima snapped. He thought too soon. These jerks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It returns ... a month late! Heh heh, sorry about that. 
> 
> On the plus side, I am aiming to increase post frequency to at least twice a month, particularly in the lead up to moving to Japan this summer. Why increase my workload when it's increasing on its own? I don't know, momentum or something. Either way, look forward to the next chapter, sooner than later!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ominous Them meet their new opening act. The trouble with living in close, close quarters is becoming much more evident.

A bus is a hard place to have any privacy. Akaashi no longer had any sort of reaction to nudity on Kuroo or Bokuto’s part (aside from annoyance) and Kenma had long perfected the art of placing his PSP directly between his eyes and offences to protect himself. Tsukishima had no yet learned this, despite his studious nature. 

His angry yelling as he blindly opened the bathroom door without his glasses first thing in the morning to find Kuroo shaving in the buck made Akaashi smile. 

Akaashi’s phone buzzed. He had no idea what the actual ringtone was. He had set it a combination of silent or buzzer years ago. It was text from Bokuto, who was in his bunk no more than five feet away.

To: Akaashi  
From: Bokuto

Wanna bet how long until someone catches tsukki naked?

To: Bokuto  
From: Akaashi

Won’t happen anytime soon

To: Akaashi  
From: Bokuto

Bet it’ll be you

To: Bokuto  
From: Akaashi

Why?

To: Akaashi  
From: Bokuto

Cause you’re unlucky

Akaashi wasn’t sure that would count as being unlucky. Or would it? The etiquette of attraction and all the weird, distracting feelings and sensations it came with was an area of his education that was sorely lacking. He’d never like-liked anyone - not the way that Kuroo did, or Bokuto or even Kenma did. It was as though he was only one walking about not being struck by lightning; he’d only known life without being struck and was no worse off for having not been. But Tsukishima was throwing him for a loop. 

He found himself seeking out reasons to talk to him, to listen to him play, or drawing his attention. 

God, the look of his face at the bar that first night. The way his eyes had lit up, all golden and bright, even as he coloured and scowled. The way he kept looking at him. It made him hungry for the attention - it was a bizarre and dizzying feeling. 

To: Bokuto  
From: Akaashi

I don’t believe in luck.

From: Bokuto  
To: Akaashi

The unlucky always say that. You mean it would be lucky if you did?

“I never said that, Bokuto,” Akaashi said aloud, though his face felt warm. Tossing his phone down next to him on the pillow and cracking all his knuckles loudly, he closed his eyes, in an attempt to get a bit more sleep. The rocking of the bus, once (and still a little bit) nauseating, was now something of a comfort, and they were always missing on sleep. 

His phone buzzed again as he was starting to doze off. 

To: Akaashi  
From: Bokuto

But you IMPLIED it. 

Akaashi sighed and swung his legs out of his bunk, climbing out swiftly and standing up directly into Tsukishima’s chin. His teeth made an audible clicking noise over the thunk of skull meeting jaw. 

“Tsukishima, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?” the guitarist asked, holding the top of his head, eyes watering. 

“Of course,” he said through clenched teeth. He was clearly hurting too. “I think. Are you?”

“I’m sure it’s only a minor concussion. It’s fine.”

“It’s because of Tsukki’s strong jaw,” Bokuto said, whistling and waggling his eyebrows from the edge of his bunk.

A muscle jumped in Akaashi’s jaw as he reached into Bokuto’s bunk and pinched his nose shut. 

It was such a childish and petty move that Tsukishima couldn’t help laughing as Bokuto let out a loud complaint. 

Kuroo let himself out of the bathroom behind the kerfuffle. “What did he do this time?” 

Akaashi looked up and scowled. “Would you please put some clothes on!” 

“Jesus Christ, not again,” Tsukishima groaned, rolling his eyes and tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

“What!” Kuroo whined, raising his hands defensively.

“Nice butt!” Bokuto called nasally, nose still pinched. 

“Thanks bro!” They high-fived. Akaashi used his free hand to punch him in the shoulder, then reached around and punched their naked lead singer. 

“Leaving,” Tsukishima declared, raising his hands in surrender. He, however, was stuck in the narrow rocking passage between Akaashi holding Bokuto’s face and Kuroo standing naked behind him. Lowering his gaze to Akaashi, he quietly said, “Please don’t make me turn around.” 

Akaashi smirked, but stepped aside. Tsukishima touched his arm as he past and it made him shiver. 

Bokuto stared at him with round yellow eyes as Kuroo rummaged through his bunk for clean shorts, finally bothering to spare everyone’s eyes. 

Akaashi caught the look Bokuto was giving him. He let him go, averting his eyes out of alarm. What was it that Bokuto thought he saw just then that made him look at Akaashi like that? 

“Wake me up when we stop,” Akaashi announced to the rest of the band and ignoring Kuroo trying to get dressed without falling over, climbed back into his bunk and buried his face in his pillow. 

 

A few hours passed, Tsukishima and Kuroo bickered, Bokuto tapped relentlessly, and Akaashi pretended to be asleep (he was trying, honest). The bus stopped for gas at one of those fancy truck stops with showers, beds, and a better than average snack collection. Kuroo stuck around to chat with their driver, and Tsukishima was deliberating between the seemingly endless selection of burnt coffees offered inside while Akaashi and Bokuto took a short walk around the parking lot.

Akaashi licked yet another drop of his rapidly melting popsicle off his wrist. Bokuto watched him, arms stretched over his head. 

“Stop looking at me like that, Bokuto,” Akaashi griped.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want something from me. Just say what you want.”

“I don’t know what it is though,” Bokuto said, cocking his head to the side. “But it’s something new, ‘cause I don’t know what it means.”

Akaashi sucked in a breath. Their drummer was relentless when something piqued his interest, and his energy seemed to know no end. Not to mention the risk of one of his moods developing if he thought his best friend was hiding things from him. “I … like Tsukishima. I think.” 

“Like … like like?” Bokuto said, eyes somehow becoming even wider. 

“Yes. I think.”

A grin spread across Bokuto’s face. “Akaashiiiii! You have a crush!” 

“Ssh, Bokuto. I don’t know that for sure.” 

“Well, do you like talking to him?”

“I mean, yes, but that doesn’t-“

“Do you look for reasons to talk to him? And think about him when he’s not right there?”

“What? We live on a bus, it’s hard to-”

“Do you think about kissing him?” Bokuto was very close now, and Akaashi could feel his face burning and his responses dying in his mouth. Despite himself, he nodded faintly. 

“Oh my god. You have a crush. You have a crush! Your first crush!”

“Again, please pipe down,” Akaashi said uselessly. He wondered if he should be irritated that Bokuto was so happy about this, that maybe he thought more of Akaashi now that he’d tentatively proven himself capable of the “basic human instinct” for romantic companionship, however, belatedly. 

He wondered if he should be more worried about Bokuto shouting it form the roof top as he continued to exclaim his excitement and ask questions without waiting for answers. 

“Bokuto, please, shut up. Don’t make me regret telling you anything,” Akaashi snapped. There was sticky popsicle between his fingers now, and he quickly ate the rest of it to avoid further mess. It gave him a brain freeze though. 

“I promise, Akaashi. Your secret is safe with me,” he crowed, shoving his shoulder. 

“Thank you.” He tossed the popsicle stick into the trash bin and licked the sticky blue residue from his fingers. “Let’s head back.” 

 

“Boys, meet Lev Haiba, and his sister Alisa,” Yaku said, standing next to the towering blond siblings. They made even beefy Bokuto look small by comparison. “They’re gonna be opening for you for the rest of the tour.” Yaku looked absolutely tiny next to them. Kuroo couldn’t help but snicker. 

Yaku glared at him. “Got a problem, Kuroo?”

“He’s probably laughing at how small you are compared to us,” Lev offered helpfully, and Yaku’s glare was abruptly replaced with a look of total serenity as he turned around and kicked Lev in the back of the knees. His knees buckled neatly as Kuroo laughed out loud. 

“Lyovochka, you can’t just go around pointing out people’s height,” Alisa whispered loudly. 

“Russian?” Akaashi asked, brows raised. 

“Half,” Lev said brightly. “I was born here in Japan though, so I don’t know any Russian.” 

Tsukishima and Akaashi exchanged a look, and Bokuto watched them with wide, luminous eyes and a sly smile. Kuroo’s brows creased, watching the minute reactions among his bandmates. 

They were all standing in the middle of their venue for the night, an open air show with rolling grass hills, sloping up away from the stage. Venue staff were working on the stage while vendors and booths sprung up at the back. Yaku had already set up their merchandise booth, which he and the driver were minding. 

“As I was saying,” Yaku said, clearing his throat, “Lev’s an increasingly popular DJ in this part of the country, so it’s lucky that he was free to open for us. There weren’t many people jumping at the chance.” 

“Thank y-“ Kuroo started, but Lev cut him off by pointing to himself and said, “I’m gonna be the best in the country, so this is just a stepping stone. I’ll let you open for me when I’m touring in Japan.” 

Kuroo smiled, but it was not a nice smile, and any gratitude he was going to share, real or not, evaporated. “You little-“

“Actually, I’m much taller than all of you.”

It looked like Kuroo was about to roll up his sleeves, while Bokuto laughed and smacked him on the shoulder. 

Tsukishima leaned over and whispered to Akaashi, “Could he really be this clueless?” 

It made Akaashi flush, and then remembering Bokuto’s observant eyes one them, suppressed the urge to lean back into Tsukishima’s nearness. Instead, he smirked, and replied, “The show is just beginning.” 

“It’s time for soundcheck! Lyovochka, let’s head up before you make it worse!” Alisa said, smiling and pulling her brother along by the arm. “Nice to meet all of you!” 

As they made their way to the stage, Kuroo turned to Yaku and gestured with both arms towards the departing siblings, hissing, “WHAT THE FUCK.” 

“What! I told you, he’s popular, and there weren’t a lot of options!” Yaku hissed back, gesturing just as emphatically. 

“And I told you, we could just open for ourselves! We’ll wear moustaches!” Kuroo hissed back, shaking his shoulder.

“How the fuck do you expect anyone to be fooled by that!”

“I don’t - it’s a fucking gimmick, Yaku, come on.”

“Don’t be so obstinate, Kuroo!” They dissolved into bickering in low voices. 

Tsukishima watched them argue for a minute, then watched Lev unpack his various pieces of equipment including giant headphones, mouth pinched. 

“Do you have a minute?” he asked, looking at Akaashi, who glanced at the bickering two and Bokuto, who was trying to offer helpful input where he could, and nodded. 

Tsukishima started down the field, the guitarist trailing after him. 

Akaashi would be lying if he claimed not to have a single butterfly in his stomach. Tsukishima would likewise be lying. 

“What’s up?” Akaashi asked as they drew parallel. 

Tsukishima took to cleaning his glasses. “I wanted to thank you, properly.”

“What for?” he asked. “You haven’t even caught me naked on the bus.”

Tsukishima raised his brows, blushing. “Is that something I should be thanking you for in the future?” he asked haughtily.

Now Akaashi was blushing. “Depends who you ask. What was it you wanted to thank me for?” 

 

Bokuto nudged Kuroo, interrupting the argument by completely ignoring it. “Look, look!” he said.

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “What? Where?”

“Those two.” 

“Tsukki and Akaashi?”

The two had walked just out of ear shot, and even from here, Bokuto, Kuroo and Yaku could see the nervous flittering of their hands and the colour in their faces. 

“Cute couple, hey?” Bokuto waggled his eyebrows. 

The statement gave Kuroo a bad feelings in his gut. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, don’t they seem like they’d be good together?”

“You mean, dating?” Kuroo frowned. Yaku eyed him critically.

“Obviously,” Bokuto said, smiling dimming. He was getting the impression that Kuroo was not as excited about the possibility as his owlish friend. 

“Akaashi? Our Akaashi? Whose never had a crush or found another human attractive in his entire memory?” Kuroo, gripping Bokuto’s shoulder, pointed at their bandmates. “THAT  
Akaashi?”

“How many Akaashi’s do we know? He likes him, I think!” Bokuto said, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout. Although he’d promised Akaashi not to say that he’d admitted such a thing, it was hard to mistake once you looked for it, and pointing out his own observations was not the same thing. He wasn’t confirming anything. 

“Interesting,” Kuroo says. He looped his arm around Bokuto’s shoulder, abruptly done with the conversation. “Let’s go put this lanky newbie in his place!” 

Yaku raised his hand, and Lev raised his, waving emphatically, yelling, “Okay!” with a delighted little trill in his voice. 

Kuroo shook his head at him as he started to set up his sound table. The sound poured out of the speakers in short, heavy waves of bass. “Sounds like shit!” he called back. 

Lev adjusted something, tried again, and while it was better, Kuroo repeated his criticism.

“Oh my god, don’t take your petty jealousy out on the kid!” Yaku complained, stuck under Kuroo’s other arm. 

“What jealousy! We sound way better than him,” Kuroo replied. Their manager rolled his eyes, and added, “Less bass, you one-trick pony!”

 

“I wanted to thank you for your help with my nerves the other night,” Tsukishima said stiffly, looking off to the side. “I, um, didn’t get a chance to say it earlier.”

Akaashi knitted his fingers loosely behind his back, a smile on his lips. “I appreciate that, Tsukki.” The waves of unbalanced bass weren’t enough to drown it out. 

“It was a big hel- eh? Tsukki!?” 

Akaashi laughed at Tsukishima’s outrage. “It’s cute.”

“C-cute? But that’s not my name!” he sputtered, glaring at him. His face was bright red. 

Akaashi grinned at him. “Tsukishima, then.”

The tall blonde cleared his throat. “Anyways. I probably would have spent the whole night in that stall if you hadn’t come to get me, and it was one of the best nights of my life, so thank you. That’s all I wanted to say.” 

Akaashi felt warm all over, and not just from the hot afternoon sun bearing down on them. “You are very welcome, Tsukishima.” 

Another wave of noise rumbled onto the field, significantly louder than the others. 

Tsukishima cringed and said, “Couldn’t we just open for ourselves in disguises or something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp this was rushed and still late! sorry y'all. i'm getting ready to move to Japan next month, so i shall make no promises regarding publication of upcoming chapters. 
> 
> thank you to those who have come back to read the new chapter, and hello, thanks to everyone who's new!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the second show of their headline half of the tour, and Tsukishima is getting used to this. 
> 
> Well, parts of it.

“I hate to admit it, but he’s a hit,” Kuroo said, crossing his arms over his mostly bare chest. They were standing behind the stage, out of the line of sight of the crowd, but they could hear them, the rise and fall of their voices and screams in time with the electronica Lev happily provided. 

Kuroo was dressed in ripped skinny jeans and a mesh tank top, sleeves of ink on full display. Bokuto had opted for jean shorts and an old shirt with armholes cut down to the seam.  
There was silver glitter streaked through his spiky hair, like premature but punk earnest silver hairs. Akaashi’s more demure outfit - black skinny jeans and white band t-shirt, to devastatingly distracting effect - gave Tsukishima hope that he’d never have to bear so much skin in public. He’s opted for blue jeans and a thin plaid shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. 

“Are you going to be okay, Tsukki?” Bokuto asked, offering him a water bottle. 

“I’ll be fine,” he said stiffly. He took the water bottle, as much to avoid yet another lecture about the risks of dehydration as to actually hydrate. 

Akaashi also took one, drumming his fingers along with the beat. “Excited?”

“Please don’t ask me that.” He eked out a nervous grimace, and Akaashi beamed back. Kuroo rolled his eyes, looking away from them. 

Bokuto laughed, spinning his drumsticks about in his now empty hands. 

The crowd rose a roar as the lights dropped into darkness and Lev’s final song came to a dramatic end. 

There was a nervous flutter in Tsukishima’s stomach and he sucked in a short breath. Somehow, being outdoors felt more intimate, more casual, and that was much much scarier.  
Watching Lev leap down the entire set of stairs with a wild grin, and the venue staff changing up the set with quick efficient movements, the flutter turned to nausea. 

Kuroo flashed a grin at all of them as he stretched his arms overhead and Bokuto scooped him up, princess style. Their lead singer simply yelled, “Onwards, my dude! To show the young’uns how it’s done!” and Bokuto didn’t hesitate to take off towards the stage in comically large steps. 

Tsukishima hesitated. Akaashi touched the small of his back, giving him a startle (for a couple reasons), before following his bandmates into the darkened stage. The crowd was screaming in waves, instigated by all the little movements. Their excitement was almost electric. Kuroo carefully kept his eyes down, his back turned, pretending he didn’t see the audience, but Tsukishima could see his smirking grin. Akaashi’s nonchalance as he “tuned” his guitar over the loudspeakers had the audience practically fainting. In the fading natural light, Tsukishima realized that Bokuto had smeared just a touch of glitter across Akaashi’s cheek bones and it was a powerful effect. 

He slid his fingers across the keys, grounding himself in the familiar shape, the easy way it fit his long hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bokuto was grinning and waving and spinning his drumsticks. 

They waited what felt like an agonizingly long time, fiddling about in the dark, letting the sun go to bed. Yet, the fervour of the crowd continued to rise to a fever pitch. 

Kuroo looked at Akaashi, then at Tsukki, then gave Bokuto the faintest of nods. With a grin as bright as the sun, he slammed the bass drum in their classic heart-beat style start. 

A hush fell over the audience, rendering the entire field suddenly very silent and eerie.

Bokuto did it again.

Tsukishima could see Kuroo’s matching grin and see the way Akaashi’s shoulders suddenly relaxed, and felt it too, the wave of ecstatic energy that crashes into your system when  
there’s live music and you’re in it and it’s starting. 

It’s the feeling of being alive, he thinks, as the crowd explodes into screaming and the stage lights burst with colour and Akaashi flashes him a sly grin and bright eyes, and he realizes that he’s grinning too. 

Kuroo’s bass thrums out over the speakers and in Tsukishima’s earpiece, and its so familiar by now that he’s a bit surprised to still get such a thrill from it. Especially when the guitar joins in, all clean and singing, the thread that stitches the parts together. 

The song rose to a height, then stopped at the end of the bar and all the lights but a single spot light on Kuroo remained. He sidled up to the mic. All the dark ink on his skin stood in stark contrast, and he looked a bit like some sort of punk warrior from another world. With a wink, he started singing. 

 

“It’s a fan favourite,” Akaashi had said without looking up, sliding through instagram filters. 

Tsukishima played some idle notes across his keyboard, trying not to feel self-conscious. When Akaashi asked him to pose for a selfie together, he was sure he’d blushed. And now it was immortalized. Worse, it was going to be on the internet forever. 

“How about you?” he asked. 

Akaashi glanced up. “Am I a fan favourite?” he asked, smirking.

“Acoustic sets. Do you like doing them?” Tsukishima clarified, playing a major chord.

Akaashi leaned back, tapping his photo against his thigh. His violin sat in it’s open case beside him. “I love playing for an audience who’s excited to hear me, no matter what instrument I’m playing.”

Tsukishima played a minor chord, raising an eyebrow. “I hear a ‘but’ in that statement.”

Akaashi sighed. “I don’t love playing for an audience who doesn’t care what I’m playing because they developed an incorrect attachment to their ideas about me.”

Tsukishima got a prickle of deja vu, and swallowed it down. “Ah.”

Akaashi made a few more adjustments to the photo and turned to phone towards him. “What do you think?”

Akaashi had taken the photo, violin neck in his other hand, his flat expression almost bored. The increased contrast drew attention to the black metal on his face. Tsukishima was there, behind his keyboard, holding up peace signs as instructed. He had not smiled, and as a result, looked as grumpy as his brother always told him he did. The most striking thing about the photo was that it looked like he belonged there. The feeling struck deep, and Tsukishima just managed, “It’s good.”

He tried not to mention that it made them look a little bit like a couple.

“It makes us look like a couple, doesn’t it,” Akaashi said, typing out a caption and hitting upload. 

“You’re the one that took the picture,” Tsukishima said flatly. 

“Let’s run that last one again,” Akaashi said, setting his phone aside and picking up his violin again. 

 

The bow picked up the stage lights as Akaashi easily strode through the notes, and Tsukishima looked back down at the keys, trying to remember his part and not be distracted. Kuroo plucked his way through the counter melody on the guitar, singing through all the movements of the ballad as though there was no audience there with waving, coloured phone lights.

No one would tell Tsukishima who had written this song, their title track, and although he had heard it at least a hundred by now, on stage and off, it wasn’t until now that he started to understand why. 

You can’t speak the only language you know,  
The syncopation of your feeble heart is hardwired.  
Collected every stick and stone ever thrown  
Buried by whips and pebbles, poor intentions, tried  
To be acceptable, respectable, just halfway fucking human.

Kuroo’s voice rose, crackling with emotion. He wasn’t even looking at the audience anymore. But they could hear the audience singing with him, pouring their hearts out in a way they hadn’t before. 

It all comes back the same way,  
\- A mirror, a crowd, a lover -  
You could never be one of us,  
The good and well-understood.  
Whose shadows don’t run long midday  
Whose hearts don’t creak, empty and abandoned homes.

The violin soared. Kuroo suddenly leaned into the mic hungrily, fervently, hushed. It always came out as this vicious secret. 

Nevertheless, you can still hear it beat, and beat, and beat, and beat,  
And for all that well-understood yearning and clawing, begging,  
maybe it belongs to them, to them, the ominous them. 

“The Ominous Them!” the crowd echoed back. The call and response escalated between Kuroo and the audience, backed by the chromatics rising and falling on the piano and the violin. The song ended on the end of the crescendo, with Kuroo’s voice ringing out over the rising hill and into the night. The lights softened, washing over the stage as Kuroo took a step back, chest rising and falling. Akaashi lowered his bow, glancing towards Tsukishima.

“Holy shit,” Kuroo said, slicking his hair back. It just increased the bed-head effect. “What the fuck was that, huh?” 

Laughter echoed back, but Tsukishima could see several people in the front of the audience, close to their age, crying openly.

“We know that some of you came a long way to be here, to spend your evening with us, and we haven’t even introduced ourselves,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. 

“This beautiful man to my right, our resident strings expert and sometimes tour-mom, is Akaashi Keiji,” he said, sweeping his arm grandly towards Akaashi, who let loose a peel of complicated, bright notes, and bowed deeply to the audience. 

“Next up is our unlikely saviour, a captain of his wits and the quickest study this century on the black and whites, Tsukishima Kei!” His other arm swung wide to the left, to where Tsukishima swallowed his sudden swell of anxiety - this was part of the show, but it was only his second one - and played his deeply rehearsed, jazzy little insert with unnecessary flourish. A bit awkwardly, he flashed a wave and a nod to the sea of people in front of them. 

“And I, of course, am your humble servant and all around troublemaker extroardinaire, Kuroo Tetsurou,” he gave a dramatic bow to the audience. 

“You’re short one,” Akaashi intoned into a mic. 

“Am I?” Kuroo replied mischievously.

Sporadic shouts of “Bokuto!” and “Koutarou!” turned into a chant of “Bokuto! Bokuto! Bokuto!” as Kuroo and Akaashi went through their elaborate set of gestured conversation about who the hell was this Bokuto person. 

“It’s probably my favourite thing in the world,” Bokuto had said while they were up late in the back of the bus, sorting piles of t-shirts. “Hearing all those people chant my name-“ he shivered “-I’ve dreamed about it my whole life.” 

“Alright, alright, I can’t lie to you. The man of the hour, the beefiest bro on the block, and the best brother a guy could ask for, our friend, Bokuto Koutarou!” Kuroo shouted, swinging wide to where the lights suddenly came down on the drum kit behind them, where Bokuto stood, arms open wide, grinning. He had also stripped off his shirt. 

He shouted to the audience, and they shouted back, marking the start of Bokuto’s four minute long drum solo, while the other band members took a quick breather, guzzled water and sometimes changed clothing or instruments. 

They band had no crew of their own on this tour, Tsukishima had noticed. Yaku and their driver helped do things like run the march table, contact venue staff and direct the band, but for the most part, they set up, took down, set up their own changes and restocks beforehand. Kenma had left them a very detailed breakdown of the lights that only Kuroo seemed capable of understanding. While the pianist hadn’t exactly been on many rock tours before, he was sure there was usually a lot more people involved. 

Akaashi poured half his water over his head before stripping off his shirt in favour of a dry black one. Tsukishima tried not to stare, but definitely did. Kuroo tried not to notice  
Tsukishima’s staring, but likewise failed. Bokuto continued to blast away at his riotous act. 

“So,” Akaashi asked, stringing his guitar around his shoulders, “what do you think?”

Tsukishima blinked. The sounds of Bokuto’s wild solo were drawing near their close. “You might not be the fan favourite after all.” 

Akaashi smirked. “The acoustic set.”

He drummed his fingers against his water bottle. “It’s a secret,” he decided. 

“Big finale, boys,” Kuroo said, interrupting them with a slap on the shoulder. Bokuto’s solo came to a rocking end, and he was shouting at the audience wordlessly. 

Akaashi nodded, seemingly unaffected by the smack. Tsukishima followed them back onto stage, shoulder stinging, heart singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well! it's a bit short, and a lot delayed, but here we are! for those returning for a new chapter, thank you! i appreciate it! here's hoping I can return to the one chapter a month schedule I held prior for this work, and not let life get in the way too much. 
> 
> for those wondering where the hell i've gone, i've gone to japan. northern japan. doing a 9-5. change is hard, y'all. 
> 
> if you are looking for some more akatsukki goodness, please check out my other fic, for which the last chapter and the epilogue are coming soon. it's titled "i'll ask not for your hand, but for your heart instead."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beach trip! Things get a bit heated. Someone even gets wet.

“Get up.” Akaashi mercilessly ripped back the curtain of Kuroo’s bunk. The reply was an angry screech from within. “I told you yesterday.”

“Fuck off, Mom,” Kuroo grumbled, pulling the pillow over his head and pressing it down over his ears. 

“If you said that to your actual mother, she would skin you,” Akaashi observed, taking a handful of Kuroo’s blankets and methodically removing it, hand over hand. 

“What, and like you won’t?”

“Not if you stop acting like a child and get up. It’s already eleven.” There was no obvious threat in Akaashi’s voice, but Kuroo began the laborious task of untangling himself from the halfway extricated blankets he was bound in. 

“Besides, you thought it was a great idea last night,” Tsukishima added. He leaned against the kitchen fridge, arms crossed, watching the conflict.

“Yeah, well, last night I was drunk, so you can hardly take my word for it,” Kuroo grumbled. He finally climbed out of the bunk. 

Akaashi pressed a cup of coffee into Kuroo’s hand and gave his shoulder one hard whack. In a completely flat voice, he said, “Rise and shine, buttercup. We’re going to the beach.”

 

Joining the foursome on their trip to the beach on their rare day off was Lev and Alisa, and Kenma was making the trip up since he was staying at his boyfriend’s house in the next town over, making them a group of eight. Akaashi and Yaku had headed out early in order to procure provisions, which Bokuto was now hauling in a giant cooler down the beach. Kuroo was delicately sipping his newly acquired ice coffee, sun glasses shielding his eyes, and carrying not a thing. Yaku nearly took him out several times with the giant umbrella Lev had somehow procured. Alisa hid under her giant brimmed hat, while her brother loudly extolled his love of beaches but also do you know how much gross stuff there is in the sand? Tsukishima was stuck packing most of the towels, sunscreen and other sundries while Akaashi carried the tiny BBQ. 

“The beach, the beach, going to the beach, gonna meet some sharks, and maybe a cute beach babe,” Bokuto sang tunelessly, yellow eyes roving the sandy embankment, the waves teasing the feet of excitable children sanding in wet sand, the sun blazing high overhead with not a cloud to be seen.

“Lucky weather, Akaashi,” Kuroo said, raising his brows. He was clearly still sore about being forced from his nest.

Akaashi held out his phone, which Kuroo lifted his glasses to see. “Your trust in the forecast once again pays off, my friend.” 

Tsukishima spotted a small waving form across the beach just as Bokuto boomed, “Kenma!” and excitedly made his way over to them. 

“How is he so fast with that thing?” Tsukishima mused. The cooler was at least 50 pounds. 

“The power of friendship,” Yaku replied dryly, but he was smiling. 

The rest of the group joined them, and rounds of introductions were made. As they started setting up, Kenma approached Tsukishima directly, his cat-like eyes fixed on his face. 

“I saw the show last night,” he said.

“You were there?” Tsukishima asked.

“Yaku streamed it for me.” He tilted his head ever so slightly. 

“Ah.” Tsukishima wished he would stop looking at him like that. 

“You’re doing fine. Relax,” Kenma said, looking away and rolling his shoulders. “You look so tense on stage.”

Akaashi called Kenma over just then to help set up the barbecue, and gave him a moment to breathe. 

“Did you ever see a show with Kenma?” Kuroo asked from where he was fidgeting with the edges of his towel. He’d clearly been listening.

Tsukishima shook his head.

“Come here.” Kuroo beckoned with his coffee, patting the sand next to him. “I’ve got a video or two on my phone.” 

The tall pianist begrudgingly acquiesced and sat in the sand next to Kuroo. He passed him his phone.

“That’s from our last tour. It was a lot smaller and we were just in some bar a town over, but my mom filmed it for me,” Kuroo explained, as Tsukishima hit play. 

It was a video of a song they don’t play on this tour, something from an early EP that Tsukishima had only listened to half of. The quality was grainy and the lighting was not great, but he could see most of the members clearly. Bokuto and Kuroo were largely the same as they were now, and Akaashi had no facial piercings yet, nor was he as kinetic as he was now. And of course, Kenma was there. The keyboard was a lot closer to the front of the stage than when Tsukishima played it, but it was his body language, lamp-like eyes and wicked grin that really surprised him. He moved with the music, rocking on his feet, hair wild with movement. It was like looking at another person entirely. 

“I don’t know if it’s a pianist thing, but he really only gets like this when he plays the piano.” Kuroo sounded amused. The straw made a loud noise at the bottom of the empty drink. “He refused to do interviews.” 

“Interviewers ask leading questions,” Kenma fired back from the edge of the barbecue. 

Lev, freeing himself from the task of trying to get the umbrella upright, said, “I love interviews. I was on this indie radio show a couple of weeks ago, and they said they were lucky to get me on before I got really popular.” 

Alisa visibly rolled her eyes from where she was helping Yaku and Akaashi assemble some vegetable skewers for later. Lev carried on to give Kuroo and Tsukishima and certainly anyone within a 20 foot radius a detailed retelling of his few hours at a small indie radio station in someone’s dining room, which led to bickering.

“Ugh. Listening to him is exhausting,” Kenma muttered.

Akaashi didn’t comment, looking around. “Where’s Bokuto gone?”

“I think he’s gone to talk to the people playing volleyball over there,” Alisa supplied, pointing to a net standing a ways down the beach and the gaggle of people in front of it. He could recognize Bokuto’s movements from here. 

“As long as he doesn’t go too far.” 

“It’s not that big of a beach, how far could he possibly go?” Alisa asked skeptically.

Akaashi made a face, and it was weary and annoyed. She raised her eyebrows and said, “Come now, it can’t really be that bad.”

The guitarist made eye contact with Kenma, who made a similar expression. 

Alisa looked between them incredulous. “Actually?”

“Do you see him now?” Akaashi added, gesturing vaguely with his skewer of onions. 

“Obviously he’s right-“ She turned towards the net in the distance, where the game had resumed and none of the players were Bokuto. “He was right there.”

“Ugh,” Akaashi said, hauling himself to his feet, and striding away through the sand to look for his once again wayward friend. Kenma added more onions to the skewer.

 

“So Tsukki,” Kuroo drawled, interrupting the awkward silence that had collected around them. The others had congregated in little knots and groups, fanning out on the beach, and left the most uncomfortable one with the least bothered. “How do you know Sawamura?”

Tsukishima stiffened. “Don’t call me that,” he snapped, hugging his knees. “He was my senior in high school.” 

“And you’re still friends now?” Kuroo prompted. That was a dispassionate way to describe a relationship. 

“I’m not sure I’d say friends,” Tsukishima said peevishly.

“But you obviously trust him. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” 

“He’s trustworthy. Doesn’t mean he’s my friend. How the hell do you know Sawamura?” Tsukishima countered, irritation flaring. Personal questions were a sore spot for him, clearly. 

“We were in the local GSA together. Went on a couple dates even though he was already head over heels for Sugawara.” He said it so nonchalantly. “I’m glad they got together though. They are a power couple.”

“They are,” Tsukishima agreed deftly. The easy openness with which Kuroo mentioned dating another guy startled him for a moment. He wasn’t surprised - not really - but the frankness caught him off guard. 

“We got on well though, so here we are,” Kuroo added, knocking his sunglasses down to the end of his nose so he could look at Tsukishima’s uncomfortable expression. “I am increasingly curious as to why someone like you quit school. Any chance you’ll tell me?”

“Maybe that will be my punishment in hell,” he said dryly, refusing to look at him. 

Kuroo laughed. 

Tsukishima scowled, burying his chin in his knees. 

Akaashi trudged back up the beach towards them, brows drawn and mouth tight and annoyed. He was soaked up to his chest, despite still being in t-shirt and jeans. The aforementioned shirt was white, and cotton, and transparent. He was also carrying a soggy t-shirt that had previously belonged to Bokuto.

Kuroo let out a low whistle, and Akaashi responded by whipping the wet shirt onto his face. This, of course, made Tsukishima laugh. 

“What happened?” he asked, watching Kuroo attempt to free himself from the wet fabric, and pointedly not watching Akaashi standing over him, back lit by the sun like some punk demigod come to kick sand in his face and steal his virginity. 

“Same as always,” he said flatly. Just as Kuroo said, “Kenma’s back.” 

Their unsteady friend was indeed returning, shoulders hunched under the giant brim of his recently acquired hat. Hot on his heels, chattering excitedly and no doubt the source of the hat, was his red-head boyfriend, Hinata Shoyou. 

Tsukishima stiffened, pointedly looking not at Kenma and Hinata. Akaashi raised a questioning brow at him, but he offered no explanation. 

Hinata waved at them, but as his bright eyes settled on the sullen Tsukishima, only partially obscured by Kuroo and the umbrella, he stopped short. It was curious effect and Kenma didn’t pay any attention to it, muttering, “Here we go.”

“Tsukishimaa!” Hinata’s sudden shout made everyone jump. “What are you doing here? Is this where you’ve been?” 

Tsukishima flinched, a momentary cringe, before he looked up. “That’s not really any of your business, is it?” It certainly wasn’t a question. 

Hinata puffed out his cheeks, now standing over them. “You disappeared all of a sudden. Yamaguchi said you-“

“Not all of us are as beastly as you are, Hinata.” Tsukishima cut him off, smiling coolly. 

“But you’re so smart,” the red-head concluded, seemingly sensing that he was crossing into dangerous waters. It was unclear if he understood why or not. “So does that you mean you’re Kenma’s replacement?”

He nodded. 

Hinata brightened again. “That’s amazing! Will you teach me?”

Tsukishima blinked. “What?”

“Piano.”

“Kenma can d-“

“No way,” Kenma cut in, watching the interactions in flickers, already fiddling with his PSP. 

“He’ll only teach me for five minutes at a time,” Hinata explained.

“Only until I’m tired.”

Tsukishima stood up, brushing sand off his pants. “Absolutely not.” 

“What? Why not?” 

“I don’t want to.” He fixed him with a hard look. “Not to mention, I told you that I was never tutoring you again.” 

Hinata pursed his lips in a pout. 

Tsukishima took a careful glance around, and Akaashi jumped in. “I’m heading back to the bus to get changed, are you coming?”

Tsukishima seized on the opportunity, nodding, and following the guitarist up off the beach towards the parking lot. 

“Can I ask?” Akaashi said, ringing out his shirt.

“I will answer yes/no questions only.”

“You’ve known Hinata from college.”

“Yes.”

“Earlier?” Akaashi ventured. 

“Yes.” 

“High school?”

“Yes.”

“Earlier?”

“No.”

“Same age?”

“Yes.” Tsukishima opened the door to the bus. 

“Were you friends?”

“Depends on your definition.”

“Did you date?” Akaashi said this with a completely straight face, but his eyes had a strange intensity about them and he was one step into the bus, making him taller.

“Absolutely not.”

“Because you aren’t interested in men?” The same expression. The same intensity. Tsukishima felt himself starting to blush.

“No,” he said, calmly. Was that the same way he’d answered the other questions? He couldn’t remember, not with Akaashi standing over him like this. 

Akaashi smiled, and the spell was lifted. “Good.” He disappeared into the bus. Tsukishima followed suite. 

“Can I ask why you’re soaking wet?” Tsukishima said, changing the subject. 

“Bokuto,” Akaashi replied, digging through his bag for swim trunks. 

Tsukishima raised his brows. 

The guitarist sighed and shook his head. “Do you play volleyball by any chance?”

“I did, years ago.”

“Good. Bokuto’s found a match and while I had no intentions of picking any fights today, I can hardly ignore that.”

Tsukishima was realized belatedly that he did not bring any swim shorts and would in fact be playing beach volleyball in his jeans with rolled cuffs, while the most distracting human in the world would be borderline naked. 

It was almost too much to handle. “There’s no way we’re gonna win,” he said without thinking. 

Akaashi looked at him, and he found himself continuing. “Not with you half-naked, at least. It’s hard to look elsewhere.”

Akaashi stared at him, and suddenly blushed deeply, shirt halfway off. 

Tsukishima realized what he had said too late. 

“Ah-“ Akaashi started.

“You-“ Tsukishima managed. Silence fell again as they stared at each other, both turning bright red. Akaashi was caught between whether he should put his shirt back on or take it off; either way was commentary, he thought. 

“I mean-“ Tsukishima started, but clear he’d said exactly what he meant and nothing followed the attempted reprise. 

“What position did you play?” Akaashi managed, a little scratch in his voice. He still hadn’t decided what to do with his shirt. 

“Uh. Middle blocker,” Tsukishima managed. “You?”

“Setter.” 

“Were you any good?”

“Am. Yes.” Akaashi’s gaze flicked to the shirt and back up. “Is it better if I put it on or off?”

“Er. Off? Well, I mean, on. Maybe? Uh.” Tsukishima was equally stuck. “It’s hot.”

Akaashi didn’t know if he meant the beach or the bus. How did anyone know? Is this what flirting was? What this what the rest of humankind went through every time they got interested in a person? How did anyone maintain their dignity, especially in front of the object of their attention?

“So.” Tsukishima struggled to get the word out without any further backtracking. “Off.” 

It was a wet shirt anyways, Akaashi thought, pulling it off and throwing it in his laundry bag. It felt strange not to put on a new one.

“Did you bring swim shorts?” Akaashi asked.

Tsukishima shook his head. “Packed kind of last minute.”

Akaashi threw a pair at him. They had owls on them. “I packed two.” 

If Tsukishima wasn’t red enough before, he certainly was now. “Ah.”

“They’re clean, I promise,” Akaashi said, extracting a second pair. These ones bore a shocking resemblance to the pop tart with the blue stripe. “Unlike Bokuto, I do laundry regularly.”  
Tsukishima barely suppressed his cringe, and Akaashi laughed. They got changed (with an incriminating amount of privacy) and headed back out to the beach. 

 

It turned out that they all played volleyball. Tsukishima wasn’t sure if he should be surprised or not, but he filed it under new information anyways. The match that Bokuto had secured was actually just securing the court, so they played four on four: Bokuto, Akaashi, Hinata, and Yaku versus Kuroo, Lev, Tsukishima, and Kenma. Alisa had volunteered to score keep and commentate. She did the latter more gleefully than the former and it was unclear who actually won. Score wise though, it was Bokuto’s team, who bulldozed the way with sheer attack power. Hinata was every bit as annoyingly talented as ever, and Kenma gave in to the heat pretty quickly. It didn’t help, also, that Akaashi was shirtless and therefore distracting half the other team without even trying.

It was clear who was burnt though.

“Bokuto, you didn’t put on sunblock like I told you.” Akaashi was looking a bit pink on his shoulders and ears himself.

“What? Yes, I did,” Bokuto said defensively. 

“It wasn’t a question.” Akaashi slapped his hand on Bokuto’s flaming red shoulder. The bigger man hissed loudly in response. “Go cool off in the water.” 

“But-“

Akaashi raised his hand again, fingers spread. His hands were bigger than Bokuto’s, Tsukishima noticed. Longer fingers. More painful slap. 

Bokuto went out into the waves, yelling at Lev and Hinata to come too because the water was nice and definitely not too cold at all. Both of them fell for it. 

 

The BBQ was over loaded with skewers of meat and vegetables, and the cold drinks at the bottom of the cooler were reaching beach temperature as the sun began to sink into the horizon. Friendly banter flowed freely, from Kuroo and Yaku teaming up to bully oblivious Lev, along with devil’s advocate Akaashi, to Bokuto and Alisa reviewing old concerts and volleyball games excitedly, and then Kenma, Hinata and Tsukishima. Hinata and Tsukishima seemed to be getting into an argument without actually fighting. 

“It’s none your business,” Tsukishima said for, possibly, the fiftieth time.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Hinata said.

“Not really.” Kenma and Tsukishima replied simultaneously. Kenma didn’t even look up from his game. 

“So mean! We spent so much time together-”

“A waste,” Tsukishima interjected.

“-In high school. I don’t get it! You have all these smarts and yet!”

Tsukishima’s eyebrow was starting to do a very strange and alarming twitch. “And yet, you have none, and you’re still at it, so clearly, intelligence has nothing to do with it.”

Hinata’s face flushed with colour. “Y’know what-“

A hand latched itself to Tsukishima’s arm just as Kenma leaned, whole body, against his boyfriend. Akaashi pulled the blond to his feet, saying, “How about a walk?”

Grinding his teeth, and keenly distracted by Akaashi’s vice grip, Tsukishima got to his feet and let himself be lead away from the fight. 

 

They walked in silence for a bit, out of sight from the others. The beach was long, and gave way to large rocks and shallow pools. Akaashi climbed through them deftly, coming to the edge of the water between two massive stones. It was so deeply secluded. Tsukishima picked his way down after him. Warm, fading sunlight painted the rock in vibrant colours, making Akaashi nearly into a silhouette as he looked out over the ocean. 

Art. 

“It’s cliche,” Akaashi said, as Tsukishima came to stand beside him. “But I love sunsets.”

Tsukishima didn’t care much about them. “The red colours are caused by pollution in the air.”

Akaashi glanced at him, a curious look. “Inexplicably, such a deep flaw doesn’t make me any less enamoured.” 

Tsukishima blushed, and in shifting his weight, slid on the wet rock. Instinctively, he grabbed for Akaashi, hands digging into his bicep, his wrist, as Akaashi’s hands found steadying purchase on Tsukishima’s waist. The momentum of his fall landed Tsukishima in the bounds of the guitarist’s arms. 

For a moment, their eyes met, brightened by the romantic, pollution tinged sunlight, molten gold and fire bright emerald. Akaashi took half a breath, and Tsukishima closed the gap, sealing off the rest of the breath with a kiss. 

Sensing Akaashi’s surprise, the way he froze up, Tsukishima pulled back, suddenly struck with the idea that maybe Akaashi didn’t want to be kissed, or be kissed by him. But then Akaashi’s eyes focused and he kissed him back. It was bit clumsy, but considering it was his first real kiss, one can’t deduct too many points. 

Their hands found better places to grip, and it took only moments before Akaashi slipped and this time they both went down into the water. It was a cold (and sharp) wake up. The sun was nearly gone, and darkness was falling. Reality rushed in with the tide.

“We-“ Akaashi started, then stopped, swallowed, and said, “We should head back. Before they start to worry.”

Tsukishima just nodded, and each of them extricated themselves from the water and the rocks on their own. Faces burning despite twilight, they made their hurried way back in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? another chapter in november? yeh, my dudes, it is indeed. (it was mostly written when i finished the last chapter.)
> 
> i hope y'all enjoyed this beach episode, even though i skimped pretty heavily on the actual beachy stuff.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto didn't listen to Mom and got too much sun. Akaashi and Tsukki avoid each other like middle schoolers.

“Akaaaaaaaashi.”

It was the middle of the night, dark save for chargers and the like, and Akaashi was pretending to be asleep. He was certainly pretending that he hadn’t just kissed their new bandmate at sunset on a beach then fallen in the ocean like a cheap rom-com plot point. Likewise, he was pretending that the kiss that didn’t happen wasn’t his first, and that he’d never wanted to kiss anyone before. 

“Akaashiiiiiii.” 

He was most certainly pretending not to hear Bokuto’s loud whispers, lest he be waking him yet again to tell him all the confusing and illogical details of a dream he’d just had and would forget in about 20 minutes, while it would take up Akaashi’s brain space for weeks, months or years. 

“Akaashi, I don’t feel good.”

If this was about a nightmare of some sort, Bokuto was going to be in a world of trouble.

Sighing, Akaashi rolled over and drew back the curtain on his bunk just enough to see Bokuto across the small space. 

“What do you mean?” he whispered. 

“My head is killing me, and I can’t breathe,” Bokuto whined back. 

Akaashi picked his way out of his bed to press his forehead against Bokuto’s. Not only was he really hot and shivering, he was shiny with sweat. Akaashi could see how damp his friend’s pillowcase was. 

“Do you feel nauseous?” 

Bokuto nodded. 

“Can you get up?” 

Bokuto hesitated, then nodded. They both knew it would be a bad thing if he was stuck in this coffin shaped space when yesterday’s dinner came back for a reprise. With a little maneuvering, Bokuto managed to climb out of his bunk, leaning on Akaashi for balance. A good thing too, because the drummer nearly collapsed upon standing upright. His skin was red and hot to the touch.

“I told you to wear sunscreen,” Akaashi muttered, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Bokuto snapped. 

Akaashi didn’t take it personally, settling Bokuto on the couch and debagging the little plastic garbage bin. He took Bokuto’s wrist, staring at his watch. Light and fast. A likely culprit for the low blood pressure. 

Soaking a couple hand towels in cool water from their tiny sink, he shoved one in the fridge and put the other around Bokuto’s neck. 

“You’ve got a textbook example of heat exhaustion,” Akaashi told him softly. 

“Uuugghhhh,” Bokuto groaned, slumping against the couch and wincing. 

Akaashi gave him a tall glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen for his headache. He could hear someone - probably Kuroo - rolling over in his bunk, disturbed by the noise. 

“Not much we can do but wait and keep you cool, unfortunately,” Akaashi sighed. It was 3AM. Not that he’d been sleeping. Nor had he been turning over less than 60 seconds of physical contact with a specific human being repeatedly. 

“I’m always cool,” Bokuto said, attempting a grin. He clearly hadn’t slept either. 

“Yes you are, Bokuto. Try and rest, okay?” Akaashi said, settling in beside him. 

“You’re not going back to bed?”

Akaashi shrugged vaguely. Bokuto took that as no, and flopped over, head on the guitarist’s knees.

“If you vomit on me-“ Akaashi warned. 

“I won’t!” Bokuto whined, and Akaashi patted his damp hair in a “fine, fine, there, there” type motion. They settled into silence, and Bokuto eventually dozed off. His quick and shallow breaths kept Akaashi on edge for a lot longer. 

 

Kuroo arose the next morning to find both Bokuto and Akaashi totally asleep on the couch. The latter was even snoring a little, head tilted back, mouth open (somehow, not drooling) and arms crossed over his narrow chest. His neck would be sore later. Bokuto looked a much more sorry picture - the morning light revealed how burnt he really was, and he was still shiny. 

“Akaashi,” Kuroo said softly. When that didn’t roust him, he tapped his nose. 

That earned him a bleary-eyed glare. 

Kuroo gestured to Bokuto, and Akaashi mumbled, “Too much sun,” as he closed his eyes again, chin dropping to his chest.

He flicked him on the forehead this time. It was more effective. That glare could kill though. Akaashi rubbed at the spot where he’d be flicked, annoyed. “He’s got heat exhaustion. It’ll pass as long as we keep him cool and hydrated.” 

“He’s looks like a beefsteak tomato.”

“I told him to wear sunscreen.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay by tonight?”

“I’m not a doctor.” Akaashi considered Bokuto, sound asleep on his lap. “He’s breathing better though. Here, there’s a cold one in the fridge.” He extricated and passed over the damp cloth from around Bokuto’s neck. 

Kuroo obliged. “Coffee?”

“God, please.” 

“Formal prayers are only recognized during business hours, please try again later,” Kuroo scoffed, but grinned and got a small smile in response. 

He busied himself sorting out the coffee machine and Bokuto yelped himself awake when Akaashi seemingly attacked him with the cold cloth. 

They could hear a corresponding groan of frustration from Tsukishima’s bunk.

“Apparently, we’re disturbing the princess,” Kuroo stage-whispered. He passed Bokuto his refilled glass and the drummer guzzled it down.

“Do you still feel nauseous?” Akaashi asked, and he shook his head. 

“No, I feel loads better,” he reported happily, then moved to stand up and had to immediately sit down again. He swallowed unhappily. “Still not great, though, apparently.” 

Akaashi stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “We have some Gatorade in the back, right?” he asked.

Kuroo nodded, and Akaashi disappeared down the narrow passage. They could hear him moving equipment around.

Bokuto sighed loudly. “Man, I’m bummed about this.”

“Better listen to Mother next time,” Kuroo said, using both hands to faux-style Bokuto’s hair like usual. It did a floppy, sweaty impression, but he seemed to calm down a bit, so Kuroo made a show of smoothing his hair down into a near perfect centre part. 

Akaashi returned with two bottles of blue drink, took a look at the two of them and rolled his eyes. 

“That’s all the reaction I get for this masterpiece?” Kuroo gasped. 

Akaashi ignored him, cracking open a bottle for their friend with the dumb hair. 

“Your coffee,” Kuroo added, holding out a mug covered in drawn owls (it had been a gift from Bokuto, years ago, and it was secretly Akaashi’s favourite mug) and the guitarist accepted it with a breath of relief. 

“A blessing from above,” he intoned reverently. Kuroo smacked him on the shoulder, and Akaashi smirked. 

Any real God above must marvel proudly at his handiwork each time he does that. 

 

Tsukishima, unlike Akaashi, had fallen asleep quickly. 

It was a lot easier to pretend you hadn’t kissed your new bandmate on the beach at sunset that way. It was easier than pretending said bandmate didn’t sleep within four feet of you.   
Bokuto’s yelp woke him with a surprise and he groaned, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. He could hear them chatting in the living space, less than 10 feet away. 

Tsukishima tried not to envy the ease and openness of the way they talked, even with Bokuto being strangely quiet. There was coffee afoot. Even after dropping out, the college-caffeine correlation remained a persistent and undeniable part of the wake-up equation. 

However, there was a new factor to consider: Akaashi Keiji. The young man he’d kissed. Who had kissed him back, before they fell into the ocean. The new bandmate he knew the least about; at least half of that knowledge could be attributed to some half-assed scrolling through fan forums. No one even knew how old he was. A boy he’d known for less than a month. 

‘Oh no, what have I done,’ he thought, yanking his blankets up over his face. 

Suddenly, it was war between the need for coffee and the need to hide for as long as possible. 

It turned out that as long as possible meant until the need for coffee won. Bracing himself he turned to hoist himself out of the bunk-

“What if I fall again?” Bokuto complained. His voice was directly outside his bunk and the blonde froze. 

“I’ll catch you,” was Akaashi’s patient but tired reply.

“You can’t lift that much.”

“I will attempt to catch you,” Akaashi rectified. “Please get into bed.”

Bokuto grumbled some more, but a bit of creaking and the rustling of blankets told him that Akaashi had not needed to catch anyone. 

“But Akaashi, what if I get bored?”

“Do a Q&A on Twitter.” 

“Oh, that’s a good idea!”

Tsukishima could feel his heart betraying him with a little giddy-up at the proximity of Akaashi’s voice. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Some people speculated that he was from Tokyo, but his English was near flawless, so lots of people thought he’d lived abroad. The truth was yet another mystery.

He made it until he could hear Akaashi and Kuroo talking about what to do if Bokuto was too ill to go on up front. 

He dropped a nod to Bokuto as he quietly made his way to the front. But of course, it’s a bus, not a house, and he found both of them staring at him.

“Morning,” he grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Morning, princess,” Kuroo teased, and Tsukishima flashed him a bright smile and a middle finger. “Oh, he’s spicy this morning.” 

Akaashi didn’t seem to want to meet his eye, focusing on his coffee as he said, “Did we wake you?”

“Bokuto did.”

“He got too much sun yesterday,” Akaashi replied flatly. 

“What about the show tonight?” 

Kuroo and Akaashi exchanged a look. Before either could respond, Bokuto poked his head out of him bunk. “I’m playing tonight, no matter what!” 

“But if you can’t even stand up-“ Tsukishima started, but Bokuto cut him off. 

“I sit all night!”

Nobody pointed out that he physically did the most work in the music making process. 

Akaashi sighed. There was no point arguing with him about it. “Then yes, we’re still going on.” 

Tsukishima just nodded, and they all filled the awkward gap that followed by taking a long drink of their coffee. 

“I’m going back to bed,” Akaashi said abruptly. He drained his coffee, rinsed the mug and left it in the drying rack to climb back into his bunk.

“It’s only 7:30,” Kuroo complained.

“And I got up at 3. We have a few hours before we get to the town, so I’m going to sleep,” Akaashi replied. Not to mention, he could keep an eye on Bokuto easier, as their bunks were directly across from each other. 

The other two let him be and Bokuto only attempted to chat him up twice before he got the message and kept to himself. 

 

Tsukishima slid over to make room, scowling, as Kuroo slid onto the bench next to him. The keyboard made the space cramped, especially while moving. 

“Can I listen?” Kuroo asked. He held up his earbuds. 

Sighing, Tsukishima unplugged his own headphones - good noise-cancelling ones - and let him plug in. They each took a headphone. Tsukishima resumed his playing, rotating through the movements of a long complicated piece he’d been struggling to master at school.

“Do you know Moonlight Sonata?” Kuroo asked, watching Tsukishima’s long hands on the keys with a strange intensity.

“Yeah, why?” Tsukishima asked, brows raised. 

“Can you play the 3rd movement for me a few times?”

Tsukishima blinked. 

Kuroo glanced at him. “Please.”

A bit unsettled by his proximity and constant hand-watching, but unsure what else to do, he resigned himself to playing the same 8-minute movement a few times. However, on his third round, Kuroo brushed his right hand off the keyboard and took over. There was bright fire in his eyes as he clumsily played his way through the lower staff for a whole 16 bars before the required reach and speed became too much to keep up the speed. 

Tsukishima picked it up easily and played through the rest of the piece, but his curiosity was piqued now. Kuroo wasn’t playing particularly - he was crossing over himself too many times - but he was mostly correct. He started again, slowing himself just a bit and let Kuroo take over the left hand again. He got much further this time, though how he’d picked up the exact notes in the trills and cords, Tsukishima couldn’t quite tell. Still, his reach proved to be a continuing issue.

“No one said anything about you playing piano,” Tsukishima said after a while. Kuroo was getting a bit faster, but not much farther anymore.

“I don’t think it counts if I can only play one hand at a time,” Kuroo replied, brows furrowed. “I’ve been trying to learn for a while, but no success.”

“A while?” Tsukishima prodded. 

“Since tour started.”

He blinked, taken aback. 

Kuroo looked at him, and Tsukishima got the unpleasant feeling that he was incredibly outclassed here. 

“Do you play anything else, Tsukki?” Kuroo asked, gaze sliding to the keys again.

“The theremin.” Tsukishima said it flatly, finding a particularly fun little line from the single playing on the radio

That got a reaction, with Kuroo raising his brows.

“I’m kidding, obviously. I played the clarinet for a bit.”

The bassist stifled a laugh. Imagining the incredible tall and perpetually salty Tsukishima playing a clarinet, effectively only one step up from a recorder, was hilarious. 

Tsukishima slammed a minor key, purposely inserting one wildly incorrect note on the keys and Kuroo jumped, ripping the headphone out. 

“Okay, okay. It’s a good base instrument, I’ll give you that.”

“Oh, and you’re such an expert on instruments?” Tsukishima sniped. In truth, he was curious. Google had only told him a shred or two more about Kuroo than it had about Akaashi. He was a cat lover, hailed from Tokyo, and got his first tattoo - a solid black band around his bicep - while travelling in California. 

“It would be easier to include the instruments I haven’t played than have on my resume.” Kuroo said this is a very light voice, but Tsukishima’s intuition peaked; there was lots to unpack in that statement. “Thanks for letting me play.”

Kuroo excused himself from their makeshift lounge and disappeared to go chat with their driver, leaving Tsukishima alone to his task of avoiding Akaashi once more.

 

After they arrived at their destination for the night, Kuroo set about unloading their equipment. Tsukishima offered to help, and Akaashi insisted he should stay to look after Bokuto, who was still feeling very rough. Yaku was off this week, meaning it was just Kuroo and Tsukishima hauling equipment back and forth from the bus. Kuroo rolled up his sleeves, his intricate black tattoos on full display in the hot sun. Tsukishima tried not to stare, but got caught looking curiously. 

They didn’t talk much beyond what they needed to know - where does this go, what the hell is this, why are there so many t-shirts, it doesn’t count as helping if you’re doing fuck all - but Kuroo had a suspicion.

“You’re being unusually cooperative today,” he mused, hoisting the crash symbol onto the drum kit’s raised dais. Tsukishima was busy securing the tom-toms in place. 

The blonde scowled, didn’t look at him, didn’t want to look at his stupid, knowing face and get read like a damn book yet again. “I help unload every damn night.” 

“Did something happen with Akaashi?” Kuroo asked, making eye contact with him through the gaps in the kit.

Tsukishima jerked back in surprise and caught his shoulder on the edge of the snare drum. “Ow,” he deadpanned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“So you’re just avoiding each other for fun today?” He raised one brow, hands on his hips. 

“If we don’t hurry up, we’ll be doing sound check in front of an audience,” Tsukishima said, extricating himself from the dais and making long strides towards the open bay doors. 

Kuroo huffed. 

Children.

 

Bokuto’s luminous eyes followed Akaashi as he ‘paced with purpose’ as Kenma had once dubbed it. He roved from one end of the bus to the other, cleaning and adjusting and moving things, keeping his hands busy. Restless.

“You should go help Kuroo and Tsukki, Akaashi,” he said, head tilting. Akaashi bent over to retrieve a plastic glow in the dark star that had fallen and began searching for its sticky counterpart on the wall. 

“You’re still sick.”

“I’m fine.”

Akaashi gave him a look, eyes narrowed. “You threw up less than an hour ago.”

“Okay, but I’m not gonna die in the next two hours or anything,” he said, staring back with unusual intensity. Akaashi had to look away, resuming his search for the star’s original home. “You’re just avoiding Tsukki.” 

Akaashi paused and let out a breath. “So?” It was supposed to come out challenging, but it just came out flat. 

“What happened?”

Akaashi pressed his lips into a thin line, finally locating the lonely sticky tack and pressing the star back into place with his thumb. “It’s not important.” 

Bokuto tilted his head the other way. These were the moments when the drummer of the Ominous Them look more like a big ominous owl than anything else.

(Perhaps more like a red robin today.) 

“Leave it alone, Bokuto,” Akaashi warned.

“You’re probably thinking that if you were normal or more like someone else, you would know what to do about him.” Bokuto said knowingly. “And you’re afraid that Tsukki will change the way he treats you when he realizes that you’re not like other people.” 

The guitarist stilled, schooling his expression to neutral, and locking his fingers together. He had been thinking those things, against his will and against his little distractions and little pleas for it to STOP. 

“I’m normal. I kno-“ Akaashi started, more reflex than anything, but Bokuto shook his head.

“Normal’s boring, y’know? You’re you, and Tsukki already likes you way more than he likes us. Have you ever thought that anything normal was even real?” 

Akaashi sat down opposite his friend. He ran his hands over his face once, then smiled faintly. 

“Please warn me before you do that.” 

“Do what?”

“Read my mind.” 

“It wouldn’t be very ominous then, would it?” 

“Oh, fuck you.” Akaashi stood up, and headed for the door. “I’m going to help. Don’t you dare die in the meantime.” 

Bokuto grinned and saluted. “Sure thing, Mom.”

Akaashi rolled his eyes. “Brat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey, it looks like I've been publishing this fic for a year now! I keep calling it "my new fic," whoops. Anyways, here's another chapter! Keeping to that one chapter a month schedule once again, hahaha. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Let me know what kind of music you imagine the Ominous Them would play, cause I'm curious. I got the idea for this fic while listening to System of a Down's "Old School Hollywood" and a fan art of punk Akaashi, so. 
> 
> Until next month!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not really a date, but they gotta do something about that tension.

The show went according to plan. Tsukishima and Akaashi, after a small awkward dance of not talking about whatever the stupid issue was, decided to act as though nothing had happened at all. 

Lev helped them break down their set, as Bokuto was sweaty and dizzy as he came off stage and was under strict orders from Akaashi to go lay down immediately. 

And while their wild opener went out to party, Kuroo, Akaashi and Tsukishima wound down on top of the bus (accessed through the sky light this time). 

“Hey, Tsukki,” Kuroo started. “Yaku was asking whether you wanted to stay on with the band or not.”

Tsukishima started, a sharp glance out of the corner of his eye. He sat to Kuroo’s left, arms loosely wrapped around his knees. Akaashi sat to the singer’s right, legs crossed. 

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Not at all?” Akaashi intoned, brows raised. 

Tsukishima shook his head. 

“Didn’t exactly think this through, did you?” Kuroo whined.

“I didn’t think it was going to be a question. I’ll finish the tour. That’s what I said I’d do.”

“How long until Yaku’s on our case about it?” Akaashi asked Kuroo, staring out over the parking lot they were parked at the edge of. 

“Maybe a week or two. He’s getting heat from Nekomata,” Kuroo said, waving a hand flippantly.

“Nekomata?” Tsukishima asked.

“He’s the guy from the Legal Department who’s been handling our contract,” Kuroo explained.

“Actually, he’s the Vice President,” Akaashi corrected. “Yaku’s part of A&R.” 

“So it’s significant heat.” Tsukishima sucked in a deep breath. He hadn’t considered it, not really. He could hardly keep straight what he was doing now, for this short stint. Could he imagine doing this for years? 

Akaashi nodded. “And you can always choose to quit, like Kenma.” 

Kuroo let out a low whistle. 

“What?”

“Not bitter at all, are you?” 

Tsukishima buried his burning face in his arms. Is this what rejection feels like, he wondered. 

“I’m not,” Akaashi retorted, matter of factly. “Same rules apply - you quit, you train your replacement.” 

I’m overthinking it, Tsukishima reasoned. Right? I’m imagining that Akaashi isn’t looking at me.

Kuroo shook his head. “Thank god for Tsukki.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Sorry, Tsukki.”

He glowered, and Kuroo laughed. 

“I’m gonna go check on Bokuto,” Akaashi said with a soft sigh. Kuroo stopped him with a raised hand. 

“I’ll go. Take a break. Be Akaashi for a bit,” he said, reaching over to tweak his chin like a grandmother, which earned him a glare. “There you go, love.”

Akaashi flipped him the bird as he let himself back into the bus through the skylight and closed it behind him.

“He plays mother to you a lot,” Tsukishima observed.

Akaashi sighed and leaned his chin into his hand, elbow on knee. “He’s the leader, after all.” 

Tsukishima considered, but didn’t say anything. The silence between them thickened uncomfortably, filling the space that Kuroo had occupied between them. The few stars that managed to eke out an appearance watched them. Even Akaashi started to fidget.

“We can’t keep pretending nothing happened,” Tsukishima finally said. He could already feel his face turning red. 

Akaashi nodded, jaw tight. 

“I’m sorry for doing it.”

The guitarist looked at him sharply. “Don’t be.” He exhaled. “I’m not sorry.” 

Tsukishima looked at him, meeting his eyes. 

Swallowing, courage failing, he looked away again. “I’ve never done this before. You took me by surprise.” 

“Done what before?”

In a fit of apparent frustration, Akaashi threw his hands up, frowning. “This. Any of this.”

“I … don’t understand what you mean.” 

Akaashi groaned, an uncharacteristically irritated sound. “Kuroo insists that I’m normal, but this entire conversation is evidence to the contrary.”

“Are … are you straight?” Tsukishima asked hesitantly.

“Oh God, no,” Akaashi said quickly. “Definitely not. I’ve just never been gay either.” 

Tsukishima’s brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Akaashi covered his face with both of his hands and muttered, “That was my first kiss and the first time I’ve wanted to kiss anyone.” 

Ah. So he did want to kiss him. “That’s fine then.”

“Fine?” Akaashi asked, glancing through the fingers of his hand. 

“I was afraid you didn’t want to be kissed and I’d made things awkward.”

“It’s been plenty awkward.” 

Tsukishima snapped his mouth shut, and Akaashi smiled faintly. The quiet stretched out between them again. 

“Can I ask you something?” Tsukishima asked quietly, knitting his fingers together.

“You already have.”

He scowled. “Have you ever … come out?”

Akaashi blinked, and considered. “No. There’s nothing for me to come out as. Sorry.”

There is, Tsukishima thought. The words you’re looking for, they exist. I know them, why don’t you? 

Ace, aro, demi, gray. 

He kept them to himself. 

“Have you?” Akaashi ventured, glancing at his from the side. 

Tsukishima hugged his knees closer. “Does this count?”

“Have you ever been with a guy before?” 

Tsukishima tensed. It was an inevitable question, of course. “I have,” he said and left no room for discussion. 

Akaashi took it in stride, and didn’t interrogate further. “I defer to your experience then,” he said. 

“My-?” Tsukishima started, but Akaashi leaned over and kissed him, a gentle press of lips on lips, something curious and cautious. 

It ignited heat under Tsukishima’s skin, a blaze that traced every inch of his body and he nearly missed the subtle question on Akaashi’s face. He answered with pianist fingers in his dark tresses, sliding across the cool metal until there was no distance between them. Akaashi was a quick student; his eagerness was surprising, if clumsy, as he leaned into Tsukishima so close, their chests met and the tall blonde was being pushed down, catching his breath. His elbow met metal and the jolt sent pins and needles up and down his arm and his hissed in pain, despite himself.

“Are you okay?” Akaashi said, pushing himself up, out of breath. His hair stuck up wildly from Tsukishima’s hands, back lit by the parking lot lights against the inky blue of the sky. There was pink in his cheeks and his green eyes were bright. 

It’s unacceptable for someone to be so devastatingly adorable and so intoxicating at the same time, Tsukishima thought, feeling scandalized and self-conscious and utterly entranced. 

“More than okay,” he muttered, already rising to meet Akaashi’s warm lips and his bright eyes and his silken hair and fumbling hands. 

The sound of the latch of the window being undone startled both young men, who sprang apart as though electrocuted, managing to untangle to the point of sitting thighs together, struggling to put their breathing right. 

Messy white and black hair appeared, followed by the curious red face of Bokuto. “We’re making some hot chocolate. Do you guys want some?” he asked innocently, glancing between them. If he noticed anything out of the ordinary about their mussed hair, rumbled clothing, proximity, or the colour in their faces, he didn’t say anything.

Akaashi knew. Bokuto was way more observant than people gave him credit for. He knew. 

“Can you put a shot in mine?” he asked, sounding tired. 

Bokuto grinned. “Tsukki?”

“Uh. Just normal is fine.” He thought his voice sounded pretty normal. Maybe a bit high. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

“Are you guys coming in?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. 

“I heard there was an meteor shower tonight,” Tsukishima supplied off the top of his head. 

“Just a couple more minutes.” Akaashi jumped on the lie. 

Bokuto’s eyes widened, bright with curiosity. “Have you seen any?”

Akaashi nodded, and Tsukishima shook his head. Both saw it too late. 

“I told you, that wasn’t an meteor,” Tsukishima said hurriedly. “It was just a satellite.” 

Tsukishima didn’t know that Akaashi actually loved stargazing - he and Kenma often went out with a telescope together to observe astronomical events. It was a quiet hobby, but like most things, Bokuto knew this. His smile dimmed, catching that something was amiss.

Akaashi’s heart was still pounding, skin still awash with sensation where Tsukishima had touched him. “You just missed it, Tsukishima. It was a meteor.” He pressed his leg, already in contact with the lanky pianists, against him, just enough to be noticed. 

“I didn’t see it then,” Tsukishima sniffed. 

Bokuto chuckled. “Okay, I’ll bring them up here in a bit.” He excused himself. 

Akaashi exhaled shakily. “That was close.” 

Tsukishima flopped down on the bus. “You’re too powerful.”

“Am I?” Akaashi asked, amused. 

“Dangerously so.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Akaashi said, looking over his shoulder at Tsukishima. His shirt had ridden up when he’d laid back, exposing a strip of his abdomen and the upper contours of his hips. So strange, that such an innocent thing could illicit such a response in his own body, a lurch of heat in his diaphragm and the more recognizable urge to kiss him - maybe even on that pale, smooth, exposed stomach. 

Even the thought, unbidden and surprising, turned his face red to his ears. 

Tsukishima raised his brow at him. 

Akaashi looked away, muttering. “You should speak for yourself.” 

The pianist blinked, and smirked to himself. Somehow, knowing that he had even some of the same ability to distract the most distracting person he’d ever met made him feel infinitely more comfortable. More in control. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Tsukishima asked in a moment of bravery. 

“Of course,” Akaashi said immediately. 

“Then I’ll consider it properly.” 

The guitarist glanced at him again, pushing his hair out of his stupid, beautiful face. 

“Later,” Tsukishima added. There was nothing ‘proper’ in his head when looking at a face like that, a mouth he could still taste. How did he convince his hair to be so soft when they spent so much time on a bus?

Akaashi smiled. 

Most definitely improper. 

Their bandmates reappearance was a saving grace. 

Kuroo climbed out first, served hot chocolate with flourish, then helped Bokuto up. 

“Better?” Akaashi asked, sliding over the let Bokuto pass and sit on his other side. 

“Almost back to normal,” he replied. 

Akaashi nodded, a faint smile on his face. “I’m glad.” 

“Being sick on tour is the worst! We only have, like, two shows left, and I really wanted to go all out for every show.” He stuck out his bottom lip, shoulders curving. “What if we never go on tour again? What if the EP flops and we never get to do an album-“

“We’re contracted already.”

“Akaaaaaaaashi!” Bokuto whined. “That doesn’t help!”

Akaashi reached over and patted Bokuto’s head. Tsukishima was noticing that this was a seemingly effective way to manage the little lows in Bokuto’s mood. A little petting.

What fucking weirdos.

Kuroo sipped at his drink loudly. “We’ll definitely do another tour, Bo. It’s not like this is our first one, right? And we didn’t have a label then.” 

Tsukishima looked at him curiously. Only silently begging for a distraction from the distraction a little bit.

Kuroo grinned slyly. “Curious?”

Tsukishima scowled. 

“You should Google it,” the singer shot back, raising his mug again, and Tsukishima raised his hands menacingly, ready to strangle this cheshire cat. Kuroo laughed, but leaned out of the way as Tsukishima made a half-assed swipe for him. “There, there.” 

“You’re such an ass,” Tsukishima huffed. 

“Oh,” Akaashi said, in a voice clearly not directed to any of them. They all glanced at him. His head was tilted back, eyes trained on the sky. 

“Shooting star?” Kuroo asked.

“Shooting stars are meteors.” Akaashi said it so monotone it was almost mechanical.

“Meteor, then?”

Akaashi lowered his face, shooting a look at Tsukishima. “You missed it.” He pointed up the sky. “The shooting satellite.” 

Tsukishima’s angry hands turned towards the guitarist, who smirked widely. 

Bokuto looked up at the sky. “How can you tell the difference? I never can.” 

Ah. Dark mood averted. Akaashi leaned into his friend and pointed up to the sky. 

“See those little flashing lights?”

“What’s the difference between flashing and twinkling, exactly?” Kuroo asked. 

“The flashing lights are coloured. Stars aren’t.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question.”

“Oh! I think I see one! That one?” Bokuto pointed as well and Akaashi, nor the others, could tell far light he was referring to. 

“Sure,” Akaashi said. He took a sip of his hot chocolate and choked. “What the hell is in this?” 

Bokuto blinked. “You said you wanted a shot, but the only thing we had was vodka. I thought you knew that.”

Kuroo laughed, loud and uncontrolled, as Akaashi made a deeply disgusted face. Tsukishima failed to stifle a snicker. 

“What sane person would put vodka in hot chocolate!” Akaashi growled. Apparently, it had a powerful lingering flavour. “Bokuto Koutarou!”

“Tsukki, save me!” Bokuto cried, scooting away from his visibly perturbed friend. He was laughing, even when Akaashi lunged after him. He somehow did not spill a drop of the terrible concoction. 

“You made your bed, you can lie in it,” Tsukishima said stiffly, as Bokuto shuffled over the hide behind him. 

While they laughed, and Akaashi attempted to furiously force Bokuto to taste the perfectly good hot chocolate he’d ruined with fermented potato juice, a single shooting star streaked across the sky.

No one noticed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year all! and happy SEASON 4 FUCK YEAH 
> 
> here's a short one, hope you enjoy!


End file.
